World Shaking Down
by Yesac
Summary: You can't save the dying with words... and, yet, Balinor is still breathing. Arthur would know. He saw it. All of it. Including the part where *Merlin* did *magic*.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: World Shaking Down  
><strong>Author<strong>: talesofyesac  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Merlin  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: Eventual violence and some character death (minor character)  
><strong>Summary<strong>: You can't save the dying with words... and, yet, Balinor is still breathing. Arthur would know. He saw it. All of it. Including the part where *Merlin* did *magic*.

**Disclaimer**: Nope, don't own any of it. Just playing around.

**Author's Note**: This is my first foray into this fandom, so my apologies if anything seems a bit off. Also, I'm not British, and so I'm sure at some point in this story I'll accidentally make that glaringly obvious. If you see something that doesn't fit, I'd love for you to tell me. Actually, I'd love feedback in general. Constructive criticism is fine and often helpful; random flames make me sigh and/or laugh (depending on how strange and badly punctuated the comment is) and wonder how some people never learned any manners. Thanks for reading!

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><p>If Arthur had been trusting once, that time has passed, slipping like a loosening knot until the pieces of the rope have parted company entirely, dropping Arthur's carefully crafted, unchallenged world—or that which had been crafted for him. The loosening had been slow at first, small changes—the pieces straining against each other, sliding away slowly… but once they slipped loose, everything hurtled downward all at once, with a drop so fast that he found his heart in his throat with the beat choking him.<p>

He hasn't hit the ground yet.

He knows the moment the rope had broken apart. Ten seconds ago. Eleven now. His heart is still beating. Twelve. And it is still in his throat.

The dragonlord had been injured. Badly. Arthur hadn't seen it happen, but when he'd stumbled over into the clearing, Merlin had been leaning over him, the bloody sword on the ground telling the story better than Merlin ever could. Even if it hadn't, Merlin's frantic, desperate moves would have made it obvious. Between his choked breaths, almost on the verge of sobs, there had been something—pleading words. Begging, because God knew Merlin was not a knight. If he had been, he would have known too well that nothing can stop the inevitability that a sword between the ribs invites. Words have no efficacy against cold steel—you can't tether the dying to you with words.

Arthur swallows. Words can't do that.

Words can't do what they just did.

Twelve seconds. Thirteen seconds. Fourteen, fifteen. Sixteen. Infinity. Something even longer.

"Stand up."

His sword is still in his hand from his last kill, but the way his arm moves it forward, drawing the rest of his body after it toward Merlin doesn't seem like _him_. This is a mistake. It must be. But his sword is still at Merlin's back, the tip just barely pressing to his jacket, because that is just what you _do _when you see someone use magic to tie a man to life.

Merlin tenses at first, letting Arthur read the clear line of disbelief in the tightening of his shoulders, right before he shuffles forward just the smallest amount, steadying himself with his hands. He's slow about the way he flips himself over, and he braces his hands on the ground, curling his fingers into the dirt forcefully enough that it bites up under his fingernails. Then, just like that, he's facing Arthur. Just sitting there on his backside looking up at the sword still extended toward him.

For just a moment, it could be nothing—like the slowly assessing look Merlin gives might not be so different from the one he fixes Arthur with when he's trying to tell whether he's serious about something or not. Why shouldn't it be the same look? That's exactly what Merlin is doing. It just that this is wildly different than trying to figure out if Arthur means it when he tells him to wear that official serving uniform. Or to eat rat. Or to lie to the king so Arthur can sneak away for the day. Or… so many other things. No, none of it's the same. This is life… or maybe death. Merlin's life. Merlin's death.

"Tell me I'm wrong," Arthur breathes out, voice unsteady where his arm is not. "_Tell _me."

But Merlin doesn't tell him anything. He just leans back, looking up at Arthur with a wide open expression: his lips part, and his tongue darts out to wet them as he slowly begins to shake his head. "I wanted to tell—"

"Shut up!" His sword pushes forward to press in against Merlin's shoulder. Just a quick flick to the right, and he'll hit that place in a man's neck that makes him bleed and bleed and _bleed_…

For once in his life, Merlin does what he's told. A good servant, though—a good servant would drop his gaze. But not Merlin. Merlin keeps staring at him, talking with his eyes in a way he's given up with his voice. Unbelievably, there's something strong about it, even with the tears shed for Balinor clinging to his black lashes. _I'm sorry,_ Merlin doesn't say.

Sorry. He's _sorry_? Arthur can't—he can't imagine—Merlin is _sorry_? Like that's all it takes?

It's stupid and wrong, and Merlin's an idiot now as much as he ever was, but Arthur—he can't deny that he's made his decision a long time ago, even if he never actually _did_. Maybe he made it before he even consciously knew what he's now seen. Because Merlin? He was never much good at hiding. There are too many unexplained events, too many things to really, truly miss. Arthur would like to think he's not that blind. He's not, is he? Except he is. There may be a reason for that. He didn't know, had no idea… but did he really _want _to know? He should have entertained the possibility. Merlin has been accused of sorcery more than once. Why hadn't he looked a little more closely at what Merlin was doing?

But he hadn't.

He hadn't _wanted _to.

Coward.

Whatever and however, the sword is falling from his fingers, even as his hand keeps thrusting forward. If he'd kept a hold of the sword, it would have gone straight through Merlin by now. Instead, it's on the ground, and the slap of flesh on flesh echoes instead.

It's less lethal, but far more personal.

Good. Personal is good. Merlin lied to him. The bastard _lied_ to him. And thatis So. Very. Personal_._

Merlin lets him lash out. There's no other explanation for it, because if he can save a dying man's life? He can certainly get Arthur off of him. A hand around his throat and a forearm smashing him to the ground should be nothing.

Still, he goes to the dirt like he isn't what he _is_.

What he is. A sorcerer.

"You have _lied _to me all this time—"

There's an aborted swallowing motion against his palm, and Merlin's face pulls tight in a grimace when he realizes how useless that is. Still, Arthur must not be squeezing as hard as he thought he was, because Merlin is still apparently capable of speech. "I didn't want—"

"I should kill you."

Merlin might even agree, because he blinks his eyes closed, and all Arthur can really think is that resignation shouldn't look like that. It shouldn't be so simple. This is _Merlin_. He's never resigned himself to anything. He never takes orders without at least a grumble. Why now? _Do it_, Arthur wants to scream. _Protect yourself._ No questions asked, just throw off the weight on him and run. Then it wouldn't be a decision, and everybody's loyalties could stay settled where they ought to be. A lack of decision would _make_ the decision for a prince who's a friend, or a friend who's a prince.

Prince _or_ friend: that _is _the decision.

But Merlin—because he has not, Arthur thinks with a curse, never made things easy—doesn't seem inclined to give him that luxury.

Instead, he just lies back against the ground, hair grinding into the dirt as Arthur presses him more firmly down, fingers flexing against Merlin's warm flesh. It must hurt, and Merlin's face is reddening, but the most he does to struggle is to bring a hand up to curl around Arthur's wrist. His nails dig into the flesh he finds there, but it is a small hurt compared to what's being done to him.

_Why are you letting this happen? _Arthur doesn't scream.

No, instead, he just grinds out from between clenched teeth, "I have to kill you." It should be a statement, but even to his own ears, it sounds far too much like he's asking a question.

Later, he will realize that it was never even a possibility that he would bring Merlin to his father. If he has to give his servant death, it will be at his hand, and it will be quick. He won't see Merlin burn. He shouldn't feel that way, of course. Magic is evil. By everything he's been raised to believe, Merlin deserves nothing less, and by the laws of Camelot, that's exactly what should happen.

Should fades, though, and maybe he's only belaboring a question he's already answered.

"Have you ever used it against me?" Arthur hears himself demand.

Merlin tires to swallow again against Arthur's hand, even straining a little this time, one hand pushing ineffectually at Arthur's chest… Or maybe not so ineffectually—it's enough to get Arthur to loosen his grip just enough to let a few words fight their way past Merlin's lips: "Wouldn't ever hurt you—"

He presses down again. Merlin chokes.

"You're lying. You've got to be."

Does he? Does he _really _have to be lying? Or would it just be easier? Because if Merlin is telling the truth, he's guilty of nothing beyond using magic. No actual harm. To kill him would be to condemn a man for doing good, albeit for doing it with a banned method.

To let him live would be to spit in the face of the laws of the very kingdom he will one day rule.

"What if you're dangerous?" he grits out. "I can't—I can't trust you." If he's wrong, and he spares Merlin—the damage will be on his head. His fault.

Damn it, though, how can someone who trips over his own feet be dangerous? And Merlin doesn't smile like he's dangerous—every morning, he always wakes Arthur with a smile, and as far as Arthur knows, evil doesn't wake you with trite phrases and sunlight. Evil doesn't bring you extra when the kitchen makes your favorite pastries. This is _Merlin_. He brings Morgana flowers. He laughs with Gwen. Sometimes (fine, _often_) he even manages to keep Arthur entertained with his antics. And besides the whole matter of sorcery, the worst lies he's ever told to Uther are ones so badly crafted that he had to know he'd get a day in the stocks in turn for getting Arthur some time alone with a girl. Lying to keep Arthur out of trouble for neglecting his duties? That's not exactly malevolent.

None of this makes any sense. Merlin is—he's not evil.

No one could possibly be that good an actor.

Could they?

More dirt catches in Merlin's hair as he shakes his head, and for the first time, he really moves, trying to push Arthur off. It's a pointless endeavor, of course: if Merlin only uses physical means, he might as well not bother. They both know that.

And, yet, it's a comfort that he's at least trying.

"Ar… thur…" he wheezes, flushed all the way down his neck now. It makes the line of white surrounding where Arthur's fingers are seem even brighter. Blood rush against skin that's been squeezed bloodless by Arthur's own hands.

Merlin will die if this keeps up. He needs air. Just like any man, he needs to breathe. Even sorcerers need to breathe. And that—it's just a very real detail.

That shouldn't be such a pull back into reality… but it is. Merlin suddenly feels more solid, skin more sweaty, more like a person and less like a nightmare concept of _sorcerer_. Whatever he is, he is still a man—still the man Merlin—and if Arthur kills the sorcerer, he will kill Merlin too. A very real Merlin. That same Merlin who cleans his armor and scares away game on hunts. It will be a very real kill, and it will be _personal_ in a way that killing _just_ a sorcerer wouldn't be.

That is his choice: kill _Merlin_ or let him live.

"You're a… sorcerer."

Yes, and he is still Merlin.

There is no way to avoid that: kill the sorcerer and he'll kill Merlin too.

The decision was made from the beginning, he knows, though he'd never admit it. At least it was made in all the ways that mattered. Arthur can't imagine otherwise, even looking down at the evidence to the contrary: Merlin as his face purples and his eyes flutter as he lips twist silently, trying to taste the air. When his fingers begin to go slack around Arthur's wrist, reality can't be denied: Arthur either has to kill Merlin or not, and he's running out of time to decide.

He's already decided.

With a harsh shove, Arthur pushes himself back away from Merlin, falling against the ground as he watches, waits. It's cold. There's dirt under his palms, scratchy with tiny twigs; a shard chipped from a rock presses against his palm, imprinting in his skin. Somewhere in the last few seconds, though, his senses have shifted, and that tiny hurt seems like nothing: he feels numb, and everything seems tinted with a color he can't describe.

Breathing, though—there's the sound of life.

The air is filled with achy gasps—both Merlin's and Arthur's. The cramps in his lungs radiate down into Arthur's fingers, seizing along with his lungs as one draws air and the other tries to loosen after being clenched down in a death grip. Everything seems cramped. It might be his lungs, or it might be his fingers, but at least Merlin is breathing despite it all.

He may be destroying everything, but he's made his decision.

It just—is it _right_?

By the time Merlin rolls over onto his side, he's begun coughing, though his eyes stay warily on Arthur while he fights to regain his breath. One hand goes gingerly to the red ringing his throat, skimming it with light fingers and wincing, probably in direct spite of his desire to hide any weakness. Arthur can understand, though—being choked hurts.

"Arthur," he says like a complaint as he bends forward, hanging his head loosely enough that he can shake it a bit, back and forth, disbelieving and disapproving all at once. How very like him. If only Merlin could multi-task as well in his duties as he does in his expressions.

Why is he even thinking this? He almost killed Merlin, and he's thinking about chores.

What is _wrong_ with him?

"I want a check on it."

This time, when Merlin's head jerks up, there's surprise on his face. It somehow dampens the confusion so obvious in the raised line of his brow. "W-What?"

"There has to be a way. I don't—I don't need to control it. But I want to be able to stop you."

If it's possible to look offended when just recovering from being choked, Merlin manages it: his eyes narrow, and his fingers stroke absently over the skin of his throat, automatically drawing Arthur's eyes to the spot in a reprimand that Merlin probably didn't consciously intend, not because he wouldn't be justified, but just because Arthur can't believe he'd be that subtle.

"You can't really think I'd—"

"It doesn't matter what I think. I have a duty to Camelot."

Merlin stares at him. There's hurt there, certainly, and it's not hard to understand why. And damn it all, but Arthur _does _want to trust him. He thinks he probably even does. But that niggling sense of _what if _tickles at the back of his mind until his fingers itch, violently enough that he digs his nails into his own palms, trying to alleviate the irritation. He's trusting his judgment, and if he turns out to be _wrong_—

No. Not an option. "There has to be a way."

"And if I tell you there isn't? Will you kill me?"

"No."

There. Finally an answer. An indisputable one, said out loud. Magic or no magic, he won't kill Merlin. He can't. Not in good conscience.

"Then why would I let you do that?"

"Because I'm asking you to."

Good Lord, he might as well have kicked a puppy, what with the way Merlin frowns, the expression seeping into his eyes, closing them off into a chilly blue. He looks almost like a child pouting, and while sometimes Arthur is rather inclined to think he acts like one too, he doesn't much want to deal with that sort of attitude at the moment.

"I've never done anything to—I've never—I've protected—" He pauses, lowering his head and peering up at Arthur through his bangs. "Why don't you trust me?"

"You've lied to me for years."

"I've _protected _you for years," he corrects, tilting his chin back upward and giving Arthur are very good view of the forming bruises collaring his neck. Again. And damn him, an intentional move or not, it's still completely effective: the clenching Arthur feels in his gut can only benefit Merlin.

The truth seems to clench up along with those muscles. That can, of course, mean nothing good, because when he relaxes, everything he doesn't want to say seems to spring to the surface, bubbling out of his mouth before he thinks better of it. "If it were only trust, Merlin, this would never be a question."

Leaning back, Merlin splays his hands behind him on either side of his own body, taking his weight. There's a stray leaf in his hair, draping just low enough that it's got to be tickling the skin at the hairline by his temple, but he makes no move to pull it away. He's all slightly cocked head, narrowed eyes—too focused on Arthur to bother with anything else. "Then why is it a question?"

"Because it is also my duty to Camelot—to my father—to hold to the law. And… you know what the law is."

Merlin really has no right to look affronted at that, and, yet, he does, as though he thinks _Arthur _is the one being hypocritical. "You'll be breaking it no matter what you do if you don't turn me in. Having some kind of way to stop what I can do—it won't make it go away altogether."

Is Merlin really arguing that? _Really?_ "Do you _want_ to die?"

"No," he admits with a quick shake of his head. "You know that."

"Then don't say things like that."

"Arthur—"

"Merlin," he interrupts slowly, raking a hand through his own hair, trying not to think about what he's saying, "Don't place yourself between me and my loyalty to my father. Whether or not he's wrong, he's still the king. His word is law. I can't believe that you want to press me to commit treason. Not when there's another way."

A rather underhanded move? Oh, yes. But if that's what it takes—if that's what he needs to do…

He knows he's won—sees the moment Merlin's face relaxes, jaw slackening enough to part his lips. A personal appeal will prevail where a legal one won't. Merlin won't deny him, not knowing that, more than anything, this is a way for Arthur to live with his decision. Betrayal is still betrayal—he is still breaking the law by letting Merlin live—but a compromise eases the conscience. It justifies things—negates all his father's reasons for wanting to have a sorcerer killed. A sorcerer whose power can be curtailed at any moment is no danger.

Keeping Merlin alive becomes justifiable.

It's still treason, but it's treason with a better reason than just blind trust to back it.

"_Is_ there a way, Merlin?"

He's had men baring down on him with weapons on multiple occasions, but this—the look Merlin is giving him—somehow cuts at him more. A moment, then another, with nothing but blankness. And then Merlin looks away. "I—I think—yes—"

"How?"

"Do you really want this?"

"I want to know that I can stop you if I need to. I want to know that you can never be a threat."

He trusts Merlin. He does. But he's only human—and doubt, it's a very human emotion. Trust is a choice, and as such, Arthur has never believed that it and doubt are mutually exclusive. So he's going to doubt, but he's still going to choose to trust too—to believe that Merlin won't use what he has for evil. Even now, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to steady himself, he can't convince himself otherwise. But the possibility—it's daunting. Why not erase it entirely? If Merlin truly isn't going to use his magic for wrongdoing, there is no reason not to do this. If he's not doing anything wrong, there will never be anything to stop.

"Do you think I could be a threat?" Merlin asks quietly.

Arthur just shakes his head.

"Then you just want a reason? Something—"

_Something you can use to tell yourself that what you did was right. Something that makes the decision logical and not just a choice wrapped entirely in a feeling—in an unexplainable trust. Because trust? It's not proof. _

Merlin doesn't say any of that… it's not even something he'd probably think. But Arthur could swear he hears it anyway, and maybe that says more about where the logic is coming from than he'd like to admit.

"Merlin—"

"No, I'll give you that."

Those words snap his head back up like a marionette on a string. That's it? All Merlin wanted was to know it wasn't about trust—not where it really counted? Of course, that's still mingled in with the problem, but if Merlin were to flat out refuse this, he still wouldn't kill him. You don't kill a man who's saved your life on multiple occasions.

No. Just no. He chooses to trust Merlin.

And Merlin, Arthur thinks a little wildly, is choosing to let him ease the risk that poses, simply because Arthur was willing to take that risk at all.

"You can do it then?"

Shrugging a little, Merlin admits, "I think so."

"You _think _so?"

That earns him a sharp glare. "It's not like this is something I've ever actually tried!"

Fair enough. "Then how are you going to-?" He trails off, settling instead for a little wave of his hand in Merlin's general direction to convey the idea.

Judging by the wrinkle that appears in Merlin's brow, it wasn't a gesture received all that well. "Look, I was born with this—it's not about just saying a few words. I can—I can _feel _the magic in me. The spells just control it better. But this—" He swallows, looking away for a moment, like he can't believe he's saying this at all. "I don't think this needs a spell. This is just me—just something I have to will my magic to do."

"Get on with it then?" he prompts, half a question. Really, why is Merlin waiting? Best to get this over with.

Best for both of them.

Best to do it before Arthur can really consider the implications of his request.

A quick swipe of Merlin's palms down the front of his trousers leaves faint stains, and while Arthur doesn't comment, it's not like he doesn't know what that means. Merlin's sweating. Nervous. "It's not as easy as that, Arthur," he snaps. "I just—do you even know what you're asking me to _do_?"

"Do you know what you've _forced _me to do?"

His answer comes in a shake of dark hair and a pursing of lips—scowling almost—right before Merlin reaches out his hand. When Arthur doesn't immediately reach back, Merlin shakes the limb lightly, giving him a pointed look that is more heavily laced with guilt than it should be. "C'mon then."

Arthur finally takes his hand. It's a bit odd how Merlin's hand feels light in his own, smoother too, without the sword calluses he's accustomed to. Merlin feels… too normal, when, somehow, he should be exceptional. Shouldn't he? But he's flesh and blood like any other man. He's even weaker than some men. Arthur could take him apart with a couple of well-aimed punches. And yet—he's—what he is. It's not as though he needs physical prowess when he could probably kill Arthur with a few muttered words.

Arthur squeezes his hand a little harder than necessary.

"You ready?" Merlin asks without looking at him.

Arthur nods, which is, admittedly, useless when the other person's gaze is on the ground. "Yes."

One of them is, then—because Merlin is not. Arthur has seen enough men put their lives on the line to know the difference. It's not even so much Merlin's face that lets him see it: the lines of his servant's skin actually smooth out when his eyes close and his breathing evens, but there's still a slight tightness in the corners of his mouth. It tells nothing, really—not to someone who didn't know what to look for—but _Arthur _is looking, and he doesn't miss the clue that isn't really there.

He's asked—sod it, he's asked _this _of Merlin, and all he sees is a hint of tension. If all his knights could have this level of courage—without the blind stupidity, of course, because, really, from Merlin's point of view, this is a _terrible _decision—Camelot would have the finest fighting force in Albion. Well, more than they already do.

Not that Arthur is biased.

Of course, if all his men fought like Merlin apparently does magic, Arthur can't imagine he'd be qualified to command them in the first place: there are no words to warn for what comes. Nothing really. No warning that Merlin has even begun beyond the tightening of his hand around Arthur's. Then, there's a quick hitch in his breath, like the magic is coming up out of him—or at least trying. Somehow, it seems to have caught within him, hooked on his insides or on a feeling—just not coming out.

And then it _is _coming out.

If there were anyone watching, Arthur is fairly certain that they'd be impressed with how he doesn't cry out when… whatever it is surges up through his body. They shouldn't be impressed. He _can't_ cry out. There's no air in his lungs. He can feel Merlin's hand clenching against his, but he can't see it, and if there's anything to hear, he can't do that either. This… thing has stolen his senses, setting everything in him alive to the point where he can't feel—or where he can feel too much to feel anything else. His insides pulse and twist, like that thing caught inside Merlin is now settling into him too, and he really wishes his insides would stop trying to crawl their way out of him. They were put inside for a reason. Best that they stay there.

His last thought before his vision darkens is that apparently Merlin is as inept at this as he is at everything else he does for Arthur.

God help him, though, Arthur's sure a messy room never hurtthis much.


	2. Chapter 2

llLethell: Thanks very much!

Adamenthea: I'm very glad that worked for you! It's so hard to figure out exactly how Arthur would react—I think a couple of different things could happen and still be plausible. And I'm glad you like my Star Wars stuff too! I should have a new fic for that up sometime this summer.

ruby890: Here's an update as requested! :)

Mreeb: I have to admit, I smiled when I saw a review from you! I wasn't sure if anyone from the Star Wars fandom would cross over into the Merlin fandom! I do seem to love epic bromances, don't I?

Alaia Skyhawk: I'm so glad you think so! I wasn't sure how it would go over.

Starts with a D: If you haven't seen up through episode 2x13 it won't make any sense at all.

Bundibird: I've actually got this story finish, so updates should be pretty frequently in coming—at least once a week.

Macceh: I'd love to see that reveal on the show too! Actually, that's mostly because I'd like to see how the relationship changes, so I hope I'm doing that justice.

LadyRaylen: The dragonlord is up next! I wasn't completely pleased with how he kind of disappear in this first section, but because it's from Arthur's POV I thought it made sense that Balinor would just sort of fade into the background when compared with what Arthur has just found out about Merlin. This part is Merlin's POV, though, so Balinor isn't quite so forgotten.

AzraelLilith: Oh, I agree—it's not a good situation. It gives Arthur a lot of power over a situation he doesn't really understand.

alisseadreams: Thanks! :)

jaqtkd: Whatever the reason, every story I write somehow seems to have angst… Glad there are people like you who find it interesting! :)

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><p>There is blue. It smears over above him, swirling with white—or the white swirls with the blue. Something. It does… something, running all together when Merlin's vision shifts, dizzy, and he blinks slowly, trying to bring things back into clarity. Unfortunately, he has only limited success at first: one blink, then another, then somewhere half a minute later, he does at least bring himself around far enough to realize that the swirling colors are the sky and the clouds in it, rushed along across the horizon by the wind.<p>

Reality chooses right then to smack him—no reason for that particular moment, really, but still a short, sharp shock regardless of timing.

What has he done?

He—oh, he's just—and—

Jerking upright, he promptly bends right back over and retches everything he'd had for breakfast back up into the dirt beside him. It's a terrible feeling, like he can't breathe; his eyes tear up as he gasps for air and grabs at the ground as best he can to steady himself.

The end result is dirt ground into his palms, the knees of his trousers soaked through by the dampness of the ground, and the feeling that what just happened with Arthur never really started or ended, not in all the ways that count, and how terrifying is _that_?

He doesn't feel that different, though—not inwardly (and isn't that really the scariest thing of all?). His body is screaming in protest, yes, but his magic feels oddly settled. Relief might be the best response to that—he hadn't been sure, really, what would happen, if he could even do this. But Arthur—he'd asked, but he would've let Merlin go anyway—and Merlin couldn't say no. Not with Arthur looking at him like that, not when Merlin had gone boneless with relief. It hadn't been the fact that Arthur wasn't going to turn him in. He'd never truly believed Arthur would. But after years of hiding, any kind of eventual acceptance from Arthur, even if it was preceded by a bout of choking—and he won't lie, that _hurt_—means everything. If this—whatever Merlin has just done—is what Arthur wanted as a show of good faith, how could that be denied him? Not with the knowledge of Merlin's magic hanging between them. This is worth it. Anything is worth it. This is nothing when he looks at the alternative.

Of course, any sort of worth to this situation assumes Arthur's made it through better than Merlin.

A quick roll of his head—and, oh, not good, because the world should never spin like that—shows Arthur sprawled next to him, unconscious and, at the moment, not showing any signs of waking. He looks okay, though, and, once Merlin manages to control the dangerous tipping of the earth, a quick check of his pulse and breathing doesn't seem to indicate any immediate danger. And honestly? If he's fine, Merlin's not in any hurry to get his royal pratness up off the ground. After all, what Arthur has asked of him _is_ achingly unsettling—it is not something Merlin regrets, but he can't quite find it in himself to entirely deny that small part of him that resents the request.

The thing is, though, he doubts Arthur even knows what he's asked. He probably never considered anything beyond his own desperation—and Merlin can't begrudge him a little shock. Anyway, he thinks as he pulls his fingers away from Arthur's pulse, it's not like Arthur is the most empathetic person even at the best of times. He tends to see things only his way, with whatever Merlin's thinking or feeling becoming at best an interesting conundrum that might be taken under advisement if he's so inclined and has the time to think on it; but, more often, it's a minor annoyance, sometimes even something worthy of a good scoffing.

Right. Maybe Arthur deserves that time facedown in the dirt for a little more than just one unreasonable request.

Anyway, it's not like Merlin doesn't have something to occupy his time while he waits for Arthur to wake.

Before Arthur had seen his magic—during, actually, he corrects himself—Balinor had been breathing again. He'd been alive. Merlin is sure: he'd felt the pulse, messy and erratic under his fingers, but _there_, and his father's chest had been rising and falling under his palm. But—that—he can't assume that lasted.

The thought is akin to a bucket of water poured over his head—not like he doesn't know the feeling, since Arthur's done exactly that to him—and why hasn't he moved yet? Stupid, so, so stupid, and he shoves himself up and off the ground—oh, still a bit dizzy—toward his father. He never quite makes it to a standing position, but that's okay, because when he falls, he at least manages to land next to his father. Proximity. Yes. Good. Doesn't matter how he got here (Arthur isn't awake to comment on his lack of grace, after all) so long as he manages to get to his father.

His father. Who is still breathing. Just like he was when Merlin left him, except even a little steadier.

It shouldn't have been possible. To save a life, a life must be taken. Except, maybe that's not always true. Or maybe the requirement was satisfied in a way Merlin can't see or understand. What if one of Cendred's men might have lived but was instead swapped for Balinor? Is that such a terrible prospect?

In some ways it is, yes, and it's really just easier not to ask why that is. Instead, Merlin runs his fingers under his father's chin, catching on the stubble as they go to his neck where they come to rest against the comfort of Balinor's pulse. It should be enough to occupy him, but even as the pads of his fingers are searching for life, he can't help thinking that he doesn't want to be the one to weigh life. He shouldn't have that right. He didn't do this—didn't trade someone's life for Balinor's—but the prospect of making that decision with any life but his own—it cuts at his control to the point where, if his hand wasn't supported, he's willing to bet it would be shaking.

Balinor's pulse jumps under his fingers.

Thank God there's life there. Life. He didn't put it there—didn't take anyone else's— so perhaps he can just be thankful it _is _there now?

Yes.

Sweaty, sticky skin is almost tacky to the touch, enough so that when Merlin jerks back, his fingers pull slightly at Balinor's skin but don't slip away. Still, he can feel the grime on the ends of his fingers—years worth of running, of living in caves, of being no one in your own eyes and the eyes of the world. No one but someone to be hunted.

"Father." He won't think about how strange that feels on his lips. Is saying this word something that's learned? Maybe he's behind—sort of inept at it. He never had any practice growing up, after all. "Can you hear me?"

If Balinor can, he gives no sign. And, yet, he's breathing. That, at least, is steady enough to be comforting, and it gives Merlin the ease to sink back on his heals, looking down at his father's still face.

He doesn't see much of himself there, which, to some degree is disappointing. He'd always thought that seeing his father would answer things he hadn't understood, maybe even things he hadn't known to ask. It's not that simple, though. Balinor is half of what Merlin was created from, but they're not the same person—it's not like he's exactly half of this man. Still, he'd expected something more, something that would immediately scream at a relation. He'd always thought he'd just _know _when he met his father… but this man, if Merlin didn't know who he was, would only be a stranger. There's just not enough there to make the connection without help. Still, there's got to be something: maybe the dark hair. But his eyes aren't Balinor's, and the lines of his face are too pronounced for Merlin to really be able to notice much else about him that might have, at one time before the weight of years set in, hinted at a relation.

Would he become like this if he experienced what his father had? Is that a part of him too? There's really not an answer to that, or at least not one that can be found with anything but experience, and for all that he wants to make a connection with his father, Merlin would prefer not to be run out of Camelot and into exile in a cave.

"Merlin?"

And speaking of those who have the power to do that…

Leaning back, Merlin peers over his shoulder at Arthur. Already, Arthur is rolling himself over, refusing to stay still a moment longer than necessary, just simply because that's who he is… and Merlin admires it. Arthur doesn't stay down—not ever, if he can help it. Of course, Merlin is a little less appreciative of the fact that, even groggy and sitting on the ground, Arthur still has the presence of mind to wrinkle his nose in disgust at the mess Merlin had made when he'd been sick. There's reassurance in that, though—if Arthur is well enough to be acting like his usual pratish self, he's well enough altogether.

"I'm right here," Merlin says simply, though he makes no move away from his father.

Instead, it's Arthur who comes to him, and, honestly, that's not as much of a first as his highness would like to think. When it happens it usually involves a lot of yelling and threats about the stocks, but in this situation, that doesn't seem likely.

At least not quite yet. When Arthur finds out who Balinor is to Merlin? That yelling might become a bit more of a reality.

To begin with, though, all Arthur does is settle down beside him with enough self-assuredness to make it seem entirely natural. He even does an admirable job at hiding the dizziness that Merlin would bet is still there, though he does sink to the ground a little harder than he might have normally. "Is he-?"

"He's alive."

Arthur just nods. "Good."

"There's something you should know."

"_More_?"

A wide grin cracks over Merlin's lips. He'd never thought this confession would be easy, but sure this can't be anymore of a violent reveal than the magic, can it? Of course, he does rather hope Arthur won't go for his throat this time: as much as Arthur tells him to shut up, it's somewhat doubtful that he actually wishes Merlin to be rendered permanently mute.

"You can't be serious! There's _more_?"

Looking back down at Balinor, Merlin shrugs his shoulders. "Are you really surprised?"

"Honestly, Merlin, you're not supposed to be this complicated!" Apparently, yes: there's that particular high strain of voice that Merlin has mentally classified as _Part of Arthur's Voice That Never Changed During Puberty _that only comes out when Arthur's tipped past incredulous.

Behind him, it sounds like a palm has just hit flesh, probably in exasperation. "Wouldn't want to bore you," Merlin answers, more easily than he feels.

"Oh, yes, quite the chance of that now, wouldn't you say?"

The rustling of boots against dirt and leaves is enough of a warning to signal when Arthur slides a little closer. Though he kneels down closer to Balinor, he doesn't touch him, and if anything, he seems to be trying for Merlin's attention more than he's looking to assess Balinor's condition. "Get on with it then!" he commands, waving a hand in Merlin's general direction—and also conveniently in front of his face, breaking the stare Merlin's fixed on Balinor.

When Merlin glances up at him he's a bit surprised at the… nervousness he finds. It's not obvious, but there's a hint in the way Arthur's brows have drawn together just the barest amount, and in how he's really _seeing _Merlin: there's concentration in his eyes, and it's the way he scrutinizes something when he's determined not to miss the slightest detail in fear of what will happen if he does. Merlin has all of his attention at the moment, and if there are nerves in Arthur's gaze, there certainly is in Merlin's mood as well. Call it self-preservation born from the necessity of not being seen too closely for fear of exposing his magic, but Arthur's intensity makes him suddenly feel very inadequate: no position is right for his hands, and looking Arthur in the eyes is as bad as looking away.

"He's my father," he finally says.

Arthur looks at him blankly. "Your father."

"Yes."

"Balinor."

"Yes."

If they were in Arthur's room, no doubt the prince would be staring out the window, looking over the courtyard, thinking, probably with one hand to his chin and a look so pensive that Merlin wouldn't have thought Arthur capable of it when he first came to work for him. But here, staring at Merlin apparently works just as well for him as a window and a courtyard.

"That does explain your mood the past few days, I suppose," Arthur concedes.

Admittedly, Merlin might have done a bit better job at concealing just how undone he was by the idea of meeting his father. "I need to try to wake him. Do you—?"

At first, Arthur doesn't catch his meaning. Then, a very pointed look later and a rather awkward wave of Merlin's hand and wiggle of his fingers, Arthur is jerking back, nodding too quickly for it to be natural. Nevertheless, it's the reassurance Merlin wanted, and so he turns back away from Arthur and leans over his father.

Whether or not Arthur knows his secret, it's no less awkward to quietly hiss out the words that channel his magic. This will take some getting used to, and maybe until it gets a little easier, he'll just not let Arthur see his eyes while he's doing this. The gold—well, it would probably make Merlin more uncomfortable than it would Arthur, but logic aside, it still seems like a bad idea.

Still, even with the tension of the situation, the feel of magic rushing through his limbs and leaking out his fingertips into his father—it still sets something in Merlin alive. He can feel the magic going into his father, pulling at him, stroking his consciousness and trying gently to coax it back out.

And then the link snaps.

The sound he makes comes out like a garbled swear, or maybe just a grunt. Either way, he's swearing for real a second later—or he would be if he could catch his breath properly. Mostly he just drools out nonsense syllables until he finds the good sense to close his mouth and swallow down the confusion before trying again a few moments later: "What—_what _was that?" he eventually manages to grind out between clenched teeth in Arthur's general direction… though the message may not be so much for Arthur as it is for himself. Words out loud have power; in that context talking to himself doesn't seem quite so strange.

Of course, maybe he shouldn't be doing that.

Because Arthur? He might actually be the one who knows what just happened.

He's certainly looking guilty enough, though that emotion is somewhat mingled with the layers of curiosity and scrutiny. Finds this interesting, does he? Well, maybe _he _thinks it's fascinating to see Merlin discover that his magic is suddenly blocked inside him, like a barrier has been raised to dam up the flow, but Merlin finds it anything but, and he lets Arthur know it in the scowl he levels at him.

"How are you doing it? You didn't say anything."

Arthur's expression doesn't change. "I _thought _it."

"You—you—_what_?"

"Exactly what I said. I thought it."

And that—it's just—it can't be—

_No_. This is—this isn't what was meant to happen. When he'd given Arthur a way to stop his magic, it wasn't supposed to be like this, like some kind of mental link. This—it gives Arthur power that shouldn't be there, more than a need for a verbal command would. Whatever this check on his magic that he gave Arthur, it's—damn it, it's beyond what it should be. It's in his _core—_that place that's only supposed to be him. It wasn't supposed to be this deep, and the idea of that alone is enough to make him want to run, storm off like the child he's not, just to regain a little of that distance, even if it's now clearly only superficial distance. He can't run from himself—and if Arthur's in his mind, that's exactly what he'd have to run from.

And running wouldn't do any good anyway.

Neither does panicking, though that's a small deterrent.

His _magic_. It wasn't meant to be like this. When he let Arthur have power, it wasn't supposed to be this easy for his to wield. Just a _thought_—it's too much, too easy, and suddenly it doesn't feel like _Merlin's _magic anymore, not when it can be taken so easily. But it _is_ his, though, so much of who he is, and Arthur—he would _die _for Arthur, but he's not ready to be so inextricably linked to him. Two sides of the same coin could not have meant this. Not this literally.

It's just too much.

"Merlin?" There's concern there, but Merlin's too strained to acknowledge it. Better to just keep looking away from Arthur—if he looks, Arthur will see far too much. "I—Merlin, don't—I'm not going to—"

That not looking thing? It suddenly seems a lot less important than the rage bubbling up in his chest.

"What?" he snaps, reeling around to lock his gaze with Arthur's. "What are you not going to do? Control me with just a _thought_? You're not going to do that? What exactly _are _you doing then?"

He's looking confused, apparently—really, honestly taken back, like he's not quite sure why Merlin is so disturbed. And for a man who's so used to owning everything with just his words, doing it with his mind isn't such a large step, is it?

"Look," Arthur says, holding a hand out, pointing a finger, "you knew this was going to happen. You knew I was going to be able to stop you—"

"But not with _thought_! With a word, Arthur. With something else. Not this. This—it's too _easy_—"

Oh, what he wouldn't give to smack that look off Arthur's face—that blank, uncomprehending look that wouldn't be so out of place if directed at a small child who failed to understand a simple lesson. But Merlin—he is not child, and Arthur shouldn't be able to lack comprehension to this degree, as though he just can't believe what Merlin is saying. Even the way he shifts closer, one hand stretched out to take Merlin's arm, manages to be offensive and terribly entitled… and maybe it is. Because this is Arthur, thinking he can make everything better, thinking he can fix this because it was never really a problem in the first place, and silly Merlin for thinking such a thing—

Arthur's fingers close around Merlin's arm. "I understand why you're upset—"

The anger in his chest goes from a bubble to a flat-out boil, and Merlin yanks away, rolling his shoulder violently, just to make sure Arthur understands how very completely he doesn't want this right now. "No, you don't. You couldn't." And maybe that's not quite fair—not because it isn't not true. Because it _is_. But it's more unfair because Arthur is trying his best, because even if the effort is infuriating and reeking of arrogance, it's really not meant that way. Arthur doesn't mean it. He never does, and maybe that doesn't make him any less of a prat, but it's something at least.

"Arthur—"

Merlin trails off. He can hear the crunching of dirt under his heals as he takes a few steps back, trying to ignore the shaking of his legs. He can even feel a slight breeze against his cheek from the movement. It's all very real, and yet the moment feels anything but. "Arthur, what if—" he tries again, hands jerking up to the sides of his head until his fingertips skim at his hair, "What if someone had the ability to stop you from using your skills in combat? What if they could do it with just a thought? Just a thought and everything you'd trained to be your entire life would be gone, all at the will of someone else."

Arthur's hand, which, strangely enough, up to this point was still extended, drops, clenching just once at his side before he straightens it almost too deliberately. "I wouldn't do that to you."

"You just did."

Arthur says nothing. That, in Merlin's opinion, says everything anyway.

"You see?" he asks, smiling humorlessly as he arches an eyebrow.

"Merlin—"

"Think how you'd feel if someone did it to _you_—"

For the first time since he felt his magic short out, Merlin sees a bit of a spark of anger in Arthur's eyes. "It's different. You—"

Oh? _Different_? How is it _different_? Because he's not a crown prince? Because he's not _Arthur_?

Furiously, he wrenches himself back toward Arthur, stopping scarcely a foot away. It does vaguely cross his mind that this is completely unacceptable—that what he's doing right now is toying with treason—but, honestly, that's just laughable at this point. If Arthur wants to have him executed, he's already got what he needs.

"Go on," he whispers, holding Arthur's stare. "Finish that thought. I dare you."

Corners of his eyes wrinkling, Arthur's gaze narrows to something like slits of blue. Sharp slits. Like he'll cut Merlin open with the look alone. "You're a sorcerer."

Merlin just stares at him. His own face feels tight enough to almost suggest that the skin will split open over bone at any moment. Everything is just so _sharp_.

But Arthur isn't done: "You're a sorcerer, and I'm letting you live. What right do you have to protest this? It's more than anyone else ever has or ever will get while my father sits on the throne. You know this. So be a little thankful."

"Thankful that the laws are unjust?" he snarls. "Do you know how many times I've saved your life? And you want me to _thank _you for this?"

Strangely enough, that eases Arthur off, though not in the way Merlin would have thought. "I want you to see the situation for what it is," he answers, voice a bit more even. His eyes ease again too, smoothing his face back into something less frigid… almost more worried.

That may be exactly the case.

"What?"

"You would be _killed, _Merlin, and I won't let that happen."

It's not a declaration or a promise—it's almost an ultimatum. A challenge, even, because Arthur will be as dogged in this as he is in everything else he cares about. Merlin should have seen it, honestly—he knows Arthur—but he hadn't thought that Arthur would consider it his _right_ to protect Merlin's life.

He really should have, he supposes, though it's a bit pointless to think so now. Anyway, if he was at all confused about it, that's been cleared up quite nicely by the newest turn of events.

"So this is your solution?" he asks Arthur icily. "What about what _I_ want?"

Arthur simply quirks an eyebrow in a gesture plainly declaring just how absurd he thinks this whole line of thinking is. "Do you _want_ to die?"

"Not particularly. But it's my life to bargain with. Not yours."

"Really? That's odd, because I could have sworn I'm your crown prince. Magic or not, your life is forfeit to the crown if I say it is. That goes for any of Camelot's subjects."

Right. Because it's just that simple. _Entitled clotpole_, Merlin thinks sourly. "Arthur, I'd die for you if it came to that. You know that. But I can't give you this. Think what you're asking."

If there were any chance of Arthur understanding, it would be now: Merlin can see it in the way his face softens, brow smoothing out and skin relaxing around the corners of his mouth. He _does_ know what he's asking, then… it's just not enough to change his mind.

"I'm sorry," he mutters after a moment, hands going to his hips. He shifts his weight more like he's frustrated than sorry, but from what Merlin can tell, the frustration _is _created from actual regret. "I can't pretend to know just what I'm asking you, but I understand your reasoning. But, Merlin, it remains that you've got something that is punishable by death in Camelot. I don't believe you'd use it for harm, but I—I can't take that chance. I'd say that about anyone. Because you could still be tricked into making a wrong decision, coerced—anything could happen. People—they would use you, and if the wrong person were able to find a way to do that, it wouldn't matter that it's _you_, Merlin. You'd still be deadly. And I can't just leave that possibility open."

One step back. Another. He stumbles backward like he's been slapped.

No. Just—no—

Maybe that argument wouldn't hurt so much if it weren't true, but of all the things Arthur could have said, this is the most effective, if only because it's Merlin's own fear. What if someone _did _find a way to control him? It almost happened with Cornelius Sigan. What would have happened if he hadn't been able to fight Sigan off? And the dragon—it had manipulated him into setting it free. Both of those things had led to disaster, and it didn't matter that he hadn't meant for them to end the way they did: he'd still been a conduit for harm.

The memory alone is enough to raise the hair on his arms.

"And what gives you the right to be that person?" Merlin croaks out finally in a voice that is far, far shakier than he'd like. He sounds ill—feels that way too, actually: if he had to bet, he'd wager his face is the color of spoilt milk right about now.

"Because I am your prince. And because I won't see you killed." Pausing, then, his lips purse, just once, before he stops and inhales deeply. "I won't abuse it. You have my word. Only what's necessary to keep you and the people of Camelot safe, Merlin. I promise."

Behind Arthur, the leaves of the trees rustle slowly in the wind. An animal moves in the undergrowth. A bird calls out. Neither of them truly notices, though: Merlin simply stares, ignoring the background of the woods, the sky, the _world_, because right now, that isn't where he'll find his answers. The only place he'll get those is in the terrain of Arthur's face, in every small pull of muscle and blink, and maybe in the half-apology he sees there.

"You have my _word_," he says again, more slowly this time.

And that? It _is _something Merlin trusts. Arthur's word is good. Arthur is a good man. Arthur will be a great king. Those are things Merlin really believes, and it's not enough to settle this situation by any means, but it's all he has.

It's still not enough.

Merlin turns away then and moves back toward Balinor, trying to pretend that every step doesn't feel like a concession.

If he did doubt Arthur's sympathy, the way Arthur sighs and comes to crouch down next to him beside Balinor would probably convince him. He takes the gesture for what it is: a peace offering. A way to let this drop for now and pretend that their whole world hasn't shaken down to the foundations.

"If I try to heal him-?"

Arthur waves his hand in Balinor's direction. "You should. Do it. We need him healed."

Not "I care because he's your father" or "I know what his death would do to you," though Merlin hadn't really expected anything of the sort. Although, it still creates a sort of ache in his stomach to hear his father so carelessly reduced to just a need for Camelot. Arthur might see him as those other things too—it's impossible to tell—but he will never, ever say so, and Merlin can't see how just thinking something like that is enough.

"All right," he says slowly, almost losing the words in his exhale. "All right."

Icy skin comes up to meet his hands—or he reaches down for it, although it really doesn't seem that way—and he flexes his fingers lightly against his father's chest. Sibilant whispers and flashes of gold are almost normal to him now, though not to Arthur. They probably never will be to Arthur, who kneels just behind him, dirty hair in his face and eyes fixed on Merlin's hands. Only seemingly half aware, he swipes the stray pieces out of his eyes and keeps on looking, even after Balinor's eyes have fluttered open.

Nothing, Merlin knows, is ever going to be the same.


	3. Chapter 3

Rohan: Thanks! I find it rather hard to choose a favorite, I have to admit.

Starts with a D: Nah, that's not dumb—I probably wasn't clear enough.

Starzinmieyez: I'm always glad when it's a bit unpredictable! Thanks for reading and reviewing! :)

Shalimar: No, that won't happen here. I don't think I've developed a good enough grasp on the characters yet to try to change something so fundamental while still making it seem in character. Maybe eventually in another story, though.

AzraelLilith: Oh, I always at least respond to questions. It's why I love reviews so much—they help me gauge where I've led people to think the story is going, or what's possible, etc. Plus, it's just nice to know someone cares enough about the story to think about this stuff (reviews=happy author, I have to admit). Anyway, answer: there's always that possibility. Though, a better chance for Merlin would probably be to test the limits of exactly what Arthur can and can't do to stop his magic. Can he make big sweeping statements that stop Merlin's magic entirely? Or does he have to be specific to the situation? Things like that. Arthur's power isn't absolute, even if Merlin can't break a direct hold on his magic—I'll say that.

DammitimmaD: Thank you!

alisseadreams: I agree—Arthur really hasn't thought out how unfair his request is. I think in some sense, though, that's just Arthur—he's been raised to think everyone ought to give him control simply because of who he is. It's an interesting aspect of his character to explore. Thanks for reading!

ruby890: Thanks for reading!

Alaia Skyhawk: Angst and characters' thoughts seem to be two things I can't avoid, so I'm very pleased you find both of them interesting!

* * *

><p>They ride for Camelot as soon as they can get Balinor into a saddle. Merlin, Arthur is sure, would prefer to give his father a bit more time to recover, but he understands the necessity as well as anyone. The Great Dragon must be stopped, and Balinor is the only one capable of that.<p>

And so they ride hard.

The sound of the horses' clipped hoof beats sounds in the trees around them, echoing out a familiar rhythm, one that Arthur could almost set his life by. The smell of the damp, earthy forest, dust of the road settling on him—he has done this so many times, and yet there is nothing the same about _this time_ at all.

_Your father will not see reason_, his conscience tells him, and suddenly the hoof beats sound a bit more like the pounding of the drum at an execution.

_I won't tell him. He doesn't need to know. Merlin is not a threat. _

It's not a matter of law anymore, but of right and wrong, and of the knowledge that Merlin is a good man—Arthur's man. His responsibility. Just like every knight who serves under him is his responsibility, even more so is Merlin. Foolish, clumsy Merlin, who throws himself into danger purely to protect Arthur. It's not a knightly code he does it for. It's not honor. It's more personal than that.

The dust of the rode settles in Arthur's lungs, choking him as easily as the thick smoke drifting from a pyre.

_You've taken something from him. He has never betrayed you, and yet you don't trust him. You forced him to give you control of his magic, because you didn't trust him._

Arthur spurs his horse a little harder, ignoring its affronted grunt. Behind him, he thinks he hears Merlin mutter something equally as irritated, but the words get lost in the sound of hooves and seem to fade into the trees themselves.

_It's not true. I do trust him. Not others, though-not how they could use him. No man, no matter how good, should have unquestioned power._

By the time they finally sight the walls of Camelot, Arthur has gone half mad with his own thoughts: the horse has been pushed harder than it should have been, and Arthur himself is feeling equally as physically taxed, and, yet, despite his exhaustion, he still cannot block the thoughts that rise in his mind.

There's no denying the hesitant look Merlin shoots him when they draw to a halt in the courtyard, and, yes, he does have good reason to look worried, doesn't he? Balinor is here, in Camelot, and if that weren't enough, the destruction splayed on the stones around them would certainly be enough to sufficiently worsen the situation. Broken stone and charred wood, the wreck of carts and weapons—whatever anyone could grab in hopes of defending themselves. The bodies are gone, of course, cleared upon the break of daylight when the dragon seems to be content to leave off until the following evening, but stains remain on the pavement, as obvious as the bodies themselves to one who knows what to look for.

Arthur makes it a point not to look.

"Well?" Balinor all but grunts out.

Any other time, it would be insisted upon that Balinor clean himself up before being presented to Uthur. Truly, he looks terrible: there's blood staining his shirt—and they will quite carefully not mention _how _that got there, because there is simply no way Arthur can convincingly explain away a mortal wound—and his hair, unkempt and matted, falls around his face and into his eyes. His eyes, though—they may be the worst bit. There's just an… emptiness to them, a sadness that Arthur hadn't thought was possible. This goes beyond simple grief—it's agony that's sunk deeper until it defines Balinor, to the point where it haunts his physical appearance.

Thank God Merlin doesn't have his father's eyes.

_Not yet_.

Arthur dismounts just a little more viciously than he needs to, and his horse jerks in protest, pulling against the hold of whatever person has somehow materialized to take the reigns. He hardly notices, focused instead on how Balinor sits calmly on his horse, barely noting the destruction around him. He has no love for Camelot, it's true, but shouldn't he at least feel _something_?

"Well?" he echoes back at Balinor. "I'm waiting."

That at least earns him some sort of expression, though he can't quite define it. Whatever it is, it's gone quickly, and Balinor is instead shooting a glance toward his son as the both of them dismount—more peacefully than Arthur by far—and come to stand beside each other on the cobblestones.

Years alone in a cave would probably dampen anyone's inclination for emotional contact, and yet there is something entirely undeniable in the way Balinor looks at Merlin. Open the look certainly is not, but Arthur has seen that stare in men when they view something their very life hinges on. For a moment, he wonders if Balinor will say something, though he's prove wrong when the man only gives Merlin a small, slow inclination of his head before turning back to Arthur.

"Best finish this then," he says quietly.

Yes. That's for the best. To finish it. Of course.

If Balinor sees the stares of the few people around them—though, most people are still wisely hiding inside the buildings—he gives no indication. He hardly even acknowledges Merlin again as he turns to head toward the castle, but instead chooses to slip by him, angling in the direction of the doors.

He knows the way. Of course he knows the way. He used to live here.

Balinor used to live here, just like Merlin lives here now, and Arthur would never admit to the unpleasant tingle that thought sends down his arms—but that doesn't make that feeling any less real. Anyway, real or not, it loosens his tongue, and he's turning to speak to Merlin before he thinks much about it: "You can't tell anyone else."

Merlin, who has already moved to follow after his father, doesn't stop. But, then, that's Merlin—always disobeying—and this is Merlin's father, so of course Merlin will follow him single-mindedly, even if it leads him straight to the pyre.

Which is _exactly _what Arthur is afraid of.

Before Merlin can get much further, Arthur gets a grip on his elbow, curling his fingers into the fabric covering it hard enough that he knows Merlin has to feel it. "I mean it, Merlin," he says, even as they keep walking after Balinor. "You cannot tell anyone who he is to you. No one. Not a word."

"Gaius told me as much. Of course, you were on that list of 'anyone'."

That answer is exactly as comforting as Merlin meant for it to be—that is, not at all. "This isn't a suggestion, Merlin."

"You can't very well make it more. What will you do? You're father will execute me if he finds out. You can't kill me twice."

Infuriating. There is no other word. "I'm not letting you die even _once_," he snarls as they begin climbing the steps. The few people in the courtyard have to have noticed the interaction, but no has been obvious enough about it to draw Arthur's attention, which is more than a little lucky, because at this point, he's about ready to snap at any convenient source. "Balinor will kill the dragon, and then he'll leave Camelot—"

The words weren't meant to be so sharp, but Merlin's caught off guard by them to the point where he nearly meets the ground with his face when he tries to ascend the last step. Arthur supposes it's a good thing that he's holding Merlin's elbow so tightly after all, because not much else keeps him standing. "You'd turn him out just like that?"

"Don't be daft, Merlin. I'll see that he's well cared for. But we both know how foolish it would be for him to stay here. My father will allow him to live for the service he's doing Camelot, but I can't believe that you think his goodwill can possibly be expected to extend further than that."

Twisting his neck, Merlin looks at him blankly. "Arthur—"

"Not a word about it, Merlin. That's an order."

Merlin drops his gaze away again, back toward the ground, the lines of his neck so tense that the tendons stand highlighted in the glare of the afternoon sun. "I wasn't going to tell anyone anyway," he mumbles just as they head through the doors into the castle.

The rest of the walk up to the throne room is enough to make Arthur swear that winter has come early. The castle is only this icy in the dead of winter… or, apparently, when Merlin is well and truly irritated. At this point, frost wouldn't be much of a surprise. It really wouldn't even be shocking to find that Merlin had cast a spell to effect the climate, though Arthur is rather inclined to dismiss that possibility: the swirl of irritation and fear and… other things Arthur can't define that is coming off of Merlin is enough to chill any building all on its own.

Of course, Merlin needn't have bothered: Uther could have done that all for him, at the moment with just a look. Or, more specifically, with the look he gives Balinor when, on a word from Arthur, the doors to the throne room are drawn back and the dragon lord is admitted into the room.

Immediately, Uther's shoulders tense, and he draws up straighter, wrapping himself in his power as visibly as he would a physical cloak. Balinor hardly seems effected: he makes his way up the aisle with steady, even clomps that sound louder inside than they did in the forest. He could be walking to his execution for all he knows, and yet his hands remain at his side, his aura calm.

Uther should be bothered to take lessons: he is, currently, showing his thoughts in a manner so blatantly obvious that Arthur knows if he were the one doing it, Uther would lecture him for hours on not showing the enemy what's on his mind and in his heart. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a problem if Uther's thoughts weren't so clearly malevolent.

_We are at this man's mercy. There is nothing to be gained by showing your hatred, Father. _

It's also possible there is little to be gained from even harboring that hatred to begin with, for all the good it's done them these many years after they first lit that bonfire of ill-will and human bodies. Literal, metaphorical—in this case, it may all by the same. Hatred lit a fire in Uther, and Uther lit a fire in Camelot. People burned.

This man escaped.

Merlin was conceived.

And Uther is still burning.

"You asked me here," Balinor says evenly, surprising Arthur by being the first to speak, "and yet you look as though you believe I'm poisoning the very ground I walk on."

It's very likely Uther believes exactly that: at the very least, those words dig at him to the point where the lines of his throat strain, broken only by a sharp swallow, when he tilts his chin back higher, looking down his nose at the man in front of him. "Your kind poisons everything you touch. And, yet, I find myself with no other recourse. Your aid is necessary."

"I don't come back for you. There are still good people in Camelot—people who don't deserve to die because of your hate."

Yes, his son. Gaius. If not for them, Camelot would fall. That truth is there for all to see in the stiff set of Balinor's jaw—in the way he looks at Uther like nothing more than a snake. And the worst part? Arthur cannot say if he is wrong. Never more than now, he is acutely aware that he doesn't know the full story. Oh, he's sure it's true that Balinor fled in the purges… but there's more. There has to be. There's Merlin and Hunith; and the reason Balinor ended up in a cave instead of with his family; and maybe even the explanation behind the way he looks at Merlin like he's found something he never even knew he lost, but that he's half afraid to reclaim.

Is Uther responsible for all of that?

Arthur stands up a bit straighter as he comes to a stop beyond Balinor, to the right of the throne. From here he can easily see Balinor's face, and, just behind him, grouped amongst the knights also standing there, Merlin.

In terms of composure, Balinor far outweighs his son. Merlin—in all honesty, he looks as though he expects disaster at any moment (not to say that's an entirely misplaced fear), at least if the frenetic clenching of his jaw is anything to go by. Balinor, in contrast, stands before Uther with hard eyes, hands tucked peaceably in front of him. He fills the space in a way Merlin hasn't yet learned to. Dirty and haggard and poorly dressed, he commands the attention of the room. Even Uther's focus is fully on him, and if there were an eye not already looking to the fabled dragon lord, that focus from the high king would suck all emphasis to that one point—to Balinor.

"I care very little for your reasons," Uther answers dismissively. "I ask only that you kill the dragon and then leave immediately."

Balinor's gaze hardens further. "So little gratitude."

"You do not even deserve your life. The fact that you are still alive is gratitude enough."

Uther is a good king—Arthur truly believes it. But in this, he is blind. Terribly, terribly blind: this man is Camelot's only hope, and yet Uther hardly tolerates his presence. Whether out of broken pride over having to ask for Balinor's help or hate for what he is, it hardly matters—Uther is putting his kingdom at risk because of personal feelings.

Foolish—but it is not Arthur's place to say so. He swallows down his words.

At the same time, Balinor seems to toss his own down like a gauntlet. "Not for lack of trying. You pursued me past your borders. I had left, and yet it was not enough. You had no business in Ealdor."

Ealdor.

Somewhere in Arthur's chest, something cold and heavy, almost slimy, churns over. Ealdor. Balinor sought refuge in Ealdor. There are many answers in that if he wants to find them. Though, after what has happened between him and Merlin, he can't quite dismiss the lingering feeling that whispers that those answers are Merlin's to give when he's ready.

And can't he at least let Merlin have that?

For a few tedious moments, it seems that Uther will counter Balinor's reproach… and, if he does, Arthur is almost certain he will be tipping over into area that will break whatever unspoken, glass-fragile truce he and Balinor have tediously struck. Thankfully, though, Uther seems to realize that as well, and rather than risking his kingdom, he lets the comment slip by with nothing more than a scowl.

"My knights will accompany you to the dragon," he says instead, one hand going to rest lightly on his throne. His knuckles are just a faction too white to make the grip appear casual—to refute the sense that he wishes the throne were Balinor's throat.

Balinor's gaze jumps to Uther's hand, then back to his face. And God help him, Arthur liked the previous blankness better than he likes the small, cold smile that Balinor gives Uther. "I have no need of their protection."

"Then you need not make use of them. But they will accompany you nonetheless."

Something in Balinor's eyes shifts, and his hands clench, right before he moves them carefully behind his back and tucks them there, out of Arthur's view. "I imagine they will," he says quietly, with a tint in his tone that is very like understanding.

Though, Arthur cannot imagine what it is that he's discerned. Whatever it is, it's not obvious.

There's a small comfort to be found—very small, because he does mock Merlin near daily for his incompetence—in how Merlin, judging by the smear of his lips into a position that screams confusion, has also been unable to guess the reason. Though, perhaps he should give Merlin a bit more credit: no one else seems to have even noticed the subtle shift at all.

Finally, Balinor nods. "I will seek the dragon within the hour."

Stiff-necked to the end, Uther just barely manages to inclines his own head in return: even then, it might as well be an insult as an affirmation. "See that you do." No other dismissal is needed—those words are curt enough.

Arthur has been raised in the court since birth. When other children were told fantastical tales, Arthur was put to bed on stories of intrigue and politics. He learned early that court life—at least among the royals—thrives on the unspoken, feeding itself with gestures and implications not fully said, but only teased at. All of that—everything he has been raised in the midst of—screams at him that something has passed here, something very significant.

But despite a lifetime of experience, he cannot say what it is.

Across the room, he meets Merlin's gaze. Somehow, it seems to have deepened, going a darker blue, very like the sky before a storm. There is no warning there—only undiluted worry—though it isn't needed, truthfully.

Arthur feels it keenly enough himself that Merlin need not tell him.

Something is about to unravel.


	4. Chapter 4

bookaddict27: There certainly will be consequences to the link. Although, whether they're good or bad would depend on your point of view, I think.

sarj2490: Oh, yes, I tossed all that around in my head. It's going to kind of be explained as the story goes on and as Arthur and Merlin experience more of the effects.

sesshouluver: Thank you! *blushes* Interesting thought about the show would end—I always thought it would just progress into something a _little_ closer (although still widely different from) to the role Merlin plays in the more classical legends. Usually, in those, he's not all-powerful, and he certainly does still mess up. I think there'd be a neat dynamic to explore there. And, yeah, I do know about the reviews, although I appreciate you pointing it out. I just find that in previous stories I've done, a lot of people actually go back and read what I've written in response to other comments and end up getting some of their own curiosities answered that way.

Starts with a D: Glad you're enjoying!

DammitimmaD: Aww, you're giving me warm, fuzzy feelings of happiness. :) And, no, the dragon lives, but, yes, Merlin does do something rather stupid.

Alaia Skyhawk: I'd say you've got a pretty clear idea of where this is going.

ruby890: Yeah, they all have some trust issues to work through. Group therapy, perhaps? :)

* * *

><p><em>I couldn't—I could never be this.<em>

Words—to be able to control a dragon with nothing more than _words_—he's altogether certain that it's not something he could find within himself. It's not him. He's only _Merlin_, serving boy to Prince Arthur; peasant; nobody, really, not in the grand scheme of things. He is nothing at all like the man before him, who at this moment looks so terribly _fantastic_ that it's unthinkable that Merlin could have the same blood in his veins. His father. And yet it doesn't seem possible.

As a child, he imagined how his father would be, dreamed of being _like _him, but never has he felt that more keenly than now.

This man—Balinor—he is a great man. A powerful man. A man who is using that to save a kingdom, to save a king who wants him dead, and Merlin cannot, when staring that in the face, help but feel very, very inadequate.

His father. This man. It's unthinkable.

He's not the only one amazed: every knight present—Arthur included—is watching Balinor with the sort of awe that comes only from seeing something certifiably amazing spread out before them. And, truly, there is so much that is exceptional in this situation.

The dragon, who was so utterly fearsome just hours before, stands before Balinor like a well-trained dog. When Balinor's pitch rises, the dragon sways lightly with it, forward and back, moving with the cadence and volume of the words. Even when Balinor slips out of the language that only he and the dragon can understand, back into English, the words are so infused with power that Merlin could almost swear that, if he wanted to, he could reach out with his own magic and pluck them from the air—bury them deep inside himself just to feel that warm glow of magic.

There would be something beautiful about the interaction, if only Merlin could stand to see any beauty in the dragon right now. Call him blind, but he can't make himself do it—not when every time he looks up at Kilgharrah, he sees dead bodies and blood, debris burning, waves of heat billowing past him as he and Arthur and the knights dive for cover…

"I understand your pain," Balinor calls out, head tipped back so that every breath of wind catches his hair and pulls it messily around his face. "But this solves nothing. Killing innocents is no better than what Uther has done."

Clearly dissatisfied with the condemnation, the dragon's wings shudder, jutting sharply out to the side in sync with the sharp drawback of its head. Though it appears chastened, there is certainly no repentance in its solid gaze.

"And yet you help him now?" Kilgharrah challenges. "He will not keep his word. You know this."

Balinor only smiles, cold and bitter, all hard understanding and determination. "Some things are worth a man's life."

The dragon hardly seems convinced. "You will stay then?" it asks, cocking its head slightly to the side as its wings settle close against its back.

"You are the last of your kind, Kilgharrah. There is nothing for you to pass on. And you know all too well that if I leave now, there are things here I can never return to. My power may continue on, but it is of no use if he to whom it passes has no knowledge of it."

To this, the dragon simply inclines its head, and, as Merlin watches, his father does the same, and for the first time since they've entered Camelot, he sees a genuine—if small—smile grace Balinor's lips. "I have made my decision. Now, leave-never return to Camelot," he orders, and it should be harsh—downright cold—but there's a warmth there that Merlin doesn't understand any more than he understands the small nod of gratitude that Kilgharrah favors Balinor with.

"Until," the dragon responds, lips curling, "the next dragon lord has need of me?"

"That will be for him to decide."

Like it's that easy. Like Balinor can really accept that.

Clenching his fists so hard that his nails sink into his skin, Merlin realizes that may be exactly the case.

And he doesn't understand it at all.

Two swift beats of the dragon's wings are enough to propel it upward, violently enough that the shock of the air rushes around all of them, flattening the grass and blowing back the fringe from their foreheads. Balinor is dwarfed under the dragon's shadow, but like everyone else, he simply leans his head back and watches as Kilgharrah rises higher into the sky.

No one speaks until the dragon is a no more than a moving dot hovering on the horizon.

And then everyone moves at once.

If asked later, Merlin couldn't say who gives the order—only that the voice is familiar, some knight he's sure he knows. Perhaps, if Arthur's voice hadn't ripped clear into the evening air mere seconds after, he might have guessed who it was, or, better, realized what Arthur has clearly surmised.

"Stand down!" he hears Arthur bellow, but they have their orders. Someday, Arthur's command will be the ultimate authority in Camelot.

But, today, Uther Pendragon is still king.

"Your father's orders—"

"Nothing we can—"

"Told to stop you from interfering if necessary—"

The sharp whistle of displaced air, then a sickening thunk—the noise is enough to define exactly what has happened, but Merlin is already turning anyway, back from where he spun to try to see what knight had yelled the command. By the time he gets back around, there is already an arrow in his father's shoulder.

He lunges forward without thinking. Words are carelessly flowing off his tongue, but he couldn't begin to know what he's even saying. Something not so good, apparently, because it's mere seconds before Arthur is on him, damnably unmovable arm around his chest, the other arm half up his neck and then over his mouth. No, that's actually his hand doing the smothering. Not the arm. Merlin's mistake. Not that it matters exactly what he's screaming his rage into, though it begins to matter a bit when he tastes the sharp bite of the leather of Arthur's glove, the dirt and sweat there, and he doesn't care, doesn't care, this is his _father—_

_The ground is damp _he thinks hysterically, over and over, frantically, as he watches Balinor sink to his knees. Balinor does get one arm down to catch himself, and Arthur's biting out words in Merlin's ear, reassurances that it was a shot to maim, not too kill, and "it's not fatal, Merlin", but the ground is wet, and it will soak through his father's already tattered clothing. It's not fair. He's got nothing left. Does Uther really have to take that too? Take him down like he's a criminal when all he's done is save Camelot?

Does Uther have to take _everything_?

There's liquid on Balinor, and Merlin would rather pretend it's damp from the ground rather than what he knows it really is. Red water from the ground. Because the ground is damp.

Arthur drags him backwards as the knights close in around Balinor. Had they shot him to stop any magic? Because it's hard for anyone to do anything with an arrow in their shoulder. Magic is like anything else that way—it takes concentration, and pain throws that off.

Kind of like being hauled away will throw someone's concentration off. Feeling himself lifted clear off the ground and back against Arthur's chest as he's pulled away from the scene certainly is disconcerting, but, from Arthur's view, it is, Merlin is fairly sure, probably justifiable. He's doing something stupid, and Arthur is stopping him, both with a whispered word in his mind—a block against the only thing Merlin could _really_ stop this situation with—and… he can't stop Arthur, not physically, not with how well trained Arthur is, because Merlin's just a servant, untrained, without his magic… nothing. And Arthur—he's a warrior. Merlin's screaming against him, twisting, fighting, but he knows, even as he's doing it, that this Arthur won't play nice with him. He wouldn't. Not when so much depends on winning, and when has Arthur _ever _let up in a situation like that?

No, Arthur has been trained to kill since birth, and the instinct to do so was in his bloodlines from the moment he was conceived. His ability to fight—it's the first thing Merlin learned about him. It has never been the Arthur he knows—not all of him, doesn't define him in Merlin's mind—but that doesn't make it any less true.

The knights bind Balinor's hands behind his back, and while they're aren't cruel about it, they are firm in how they pull him to his feet. At least they take care to avoid the wounded shoulder as much as possible. That's doable—the shot took him in the upper part of his shoulder, and from what Merlin can see—and it is, admittedly, rather difficult to see anything with Arthur's hand over his mouth and half across the rest of his face too—it won't be too difficult to extract. Gaius can do it. Merlin has seen him cure far worse.

They get him back up on his horse. With his hands bound and an arrow through his shoulder, he won't be riding off on his own. It's a perfectly reasonable way to transport him back to the castle, and, yet, it boils Merlin's blood. Balinor rode out here on that same horse to save the people who are now arresting him. It's a mockery of what he did for them to make him ride back on it too. Maybe not intentionally, but that doesn't negate the fact that it _is—_

Predictably enough, rope coiling around his own wrists provides something of a momentary distraction. And honestly? It's a shock he could do without when he sees that it's _Arthur _who's doing the tying.

Sometime in the last few seconds it seems he's released Merlin's mouth, though could anyone really fault him for not noticing? It's not like Arthur has actually let go of him: he's still at his back, halting off anything Merlin would like to try before it even begins. Only, now both his hands are at Merlin's wrists, tying them together.

"What are you _doing-?" _he snarls, twisting against Arthur all over again… only to find Arthur's hand at his neck, squeezing just lightly enough to warn. He might actually count that as a good thing if he'd interrupted the knot Arthur was tying, but a quick check not only digs the rope into his wrists, but it makes it very clear that the knots are sound.

"I'm getting you up on the horse, Merlin," Arthur hisses right back, "and if you have any sense, use it now and _keep your mouth shut_."

"Go—"

It's probably a good thing that Arthur takes that as a sign that, yes, he does need to put his hand back up over Merlin's mouth. If he hadn't, it's rather likely that the unflattering insults that may or may not involve accusations of inappropriate contact with farm animals would have come spilling out, and while Arthur can overlook a lot of things, even he can't ignore disrespect like that in front of his knights.

It doesn't make Merlin feel any better, though. If anything, it just makes that anger pulse a little harder.

As it is, the knights, now that they've gotten Balinor settled on a horse—tied there too, because no man with an arrow in his shoulder can be expected to ride properly—are surreptitiously casting glances at their prince and his furious servant. Clearly, Arthur knows it—and it's wearing his patience thin, probably with good reason: Merlin is well aware that what he's doing is a bad idea. This will get back to Uther, who will ask questions. He'll want to know why his son's servant cares so much for a dragon lord he hadn't met until a day ago.

It's not such a surprise that Arthur doesn't want to give Uther a reason to ask questions.

Unfortunately for him, even Merlin is willing to admit that his actions have pretty effectively killed that likelihood.

It seems, though, that Arthur is willing to risk that rather than to have Merlin actually shout his relation to Balinor at anyone who will listen. And, really, who says he was actually going to do that? He can't even remember what he was yelling… it wasn't necessarily _that_…

"I want your _word_," Arthur tells him, his voice as low and authoritative as Merlin has ever heard it. "I want your word that if I take my hand away, you won't talk. Nod, or I swear, Merlin, I'll knock you out on the spot. And it won't feel good."

No, really? Even now, Arthur has to be an utter ass, acting like this is just another situation to be controlled. That's an illogical accusation, he knows—Arthur is doing the best he can in a bad situation—but at this point, Merlin doesn't much care. His father just saved Camelot and was repaid with an arrow in the shoulder, and Arthur is just letting them take him back to Uther, back to what is—is—

Merlin shudders.

No. He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to think about any of it. There's a block clamping down on his magic, and his father is being dragged away, and the outcome of this situation will be—will be—

He yanks his body viciously against Arthur's, trying one last time to break free before he finally gives into the inevitable—he's not getting loose—and does the next best thing: he shakes his head emphatically.

Arthur just sighs. "Fine, but don't blame me for how utterly wretched your head is going to feel when you wake up."

Not blame him? Little chance that Merlin will grant that wish… but bitter thoughts or not, Merlin does have to admit, he almost welcomes the darkness that comes on the heel of the pain of Arthur's blow. He's not thinking now, at least.

* * *

><p>"You can't do this."<p>

Unfortunately, the reality, Arthur knows, even as he's denying it, is that his father _can_. It's unjust and deplorable, but he _can _do it.

"He practices magic! For the good of—"

Another lecture on the danger of magic. More words, useless, but Uther will never stop, because, Arthur has long since realized, he truly believes what he is saying. He honestly believes that he is justified in killing the man who saved Camelot.

And he is _wrong_.

Practically snarling, Arthur tosses his hands up in the air and turns on his heel back toward his father. "For the good of the kingdom? The kingdom that would have been destroyed if Balinor hadn't intervened?"

"One good act does not negate a core of evil!" Uther bites out, slamming a hand down on the wooden table in front of him.

They have dinner in this room. Meetings are held here. Once, when Arthur was young, he even hid in here while playing a Very Serious game of hide-and-seek with the son of a visiting dignitary. Not much has changed about this place, and if it were any other day, the dying light filtering through the windows would make the room seem warm, normal. Someone will be along to light the candles soon, lest the room become too dark.

Right now, though? Right now Arthur couldn't possibly want to see anything less than he wants to see any sort of flame, even for something as harmless as a candle.

"He saved Camelot! How is that evil?"

Leaning forward, Uther braces his hands on the table. He stands there like that for several moments, staring unmoving up at his son. "He does, undoubtedly, have his own reasons for doing so."

Arthur's got a reply for that—it's almost already rolling off his tongue… but, somehow, it seems to catch in his throat, held there by the bitter reality that, oh, _yes_, Balinor does have a reason for what he's doing. He's got a son to save. A son whose life is here in Camelot. So, yes, Merlin is his reason—Balinor _had_ refused them initially.

And yet… "That doesn't make him _evil_." Everyone has a motive. It's just the way of things. The fact remains, Balinor could have kept Merlin away from Camelot, could have let the city fall without causing his son to fall with it.

"No, the sorcery that he practices is responsible for that."

"Surely not all sorcerers are the same—"

Suddenly all sharp movement, Uther jerks upright. "You are blinded by today's events!" he snaps, his fingers curling against the wood of the table.

And Arthur lashes back without thinking: "You are blinded by what happened over two decades ago!"

Not his best idea ever.

No, certainly not: he's gone too far. He knows it the moment the words drop past his lips, but he can't quite care, even while Uther is looking at him slack-jawed and with the kind of rage Arthur has only ever seen in a wounded animal that's been cornered.

"Get out."

"Father—"

"GET OUT!"

But he won't. He can't drop this. Too much is dependent on it—just _too much_. "You can't have him killed for returning on your orders to save Camelot!"

Pitching back away from the table so violently that his leg catches the chair at his side, Uther ignores to protest of wood on wood as the chair rakes back against the floor as he stalks toward Arthur. Imposing hardly even begins to describe him, and were Arthur much younger, he's certain he'd be backpedaling.

As it is, it's an effort to hold his ground.

"I will do what is best for my kingdom!" Uther snarls.

"What's best? And what if we have need of a dragonlord again? Have you considered that?"

Scant inches separate him from his father now. He looms over Arthur with the sheer presence of a parent who has always commanded respect, if not in height. This, though—it doesn't look like his father. This man looks half mad, eyes almost crazed with fervor, and the lines of his face have never seemed quite so prominent as they do now.

But he does not yell. No explosion comes. Arthur half expects to be struck at any moment, but it doesn't happen, and he's left standing there, trying to stare his father down in a way that maybe, he thinks with a bit of shame, he's just not ready for yet.

It's Uther who breaks the moment.

"He banished the dragon. It will not return," he breathes out, surprisingly quietly. "My word stands."

_And if it does? _will not be an accepted answer, and so Arthur just tilts his head back and takes a deep breath. "This is unjust."

Uther looks entirely disgusted. "This man is nothing to you."

"It doesn't matter who he is to me. He saved Camelot, and you seek to repay that with death. There is _nothing_ right in that."

Finally, Uther takes a step back, turning away from Arthur. It could be taken as a retreat, but Arthur knows better—his father is not fighting a battle with him. He has already won, simply by virtue of being king, of having his word stand as law. To step away is only to indulge his emotions, which he apparently feels he can do, since he's won a fight that was, technically, never a fight at all.

And it won't be—not unless Arthur puts some kind of ultimatum on the table.

How can he possibly describe the mad itch of that? The desire it gives him to get under his own skin and scratch, because this is his king, his father, and denying him is maddening, but obeying him might just drive him insane anyway. What can he possibly choose of two impossible options? That—_that _is the constant itch, demanding inside and out to be scratched—to have a decision _made_.

God help him, though, it's not so easy.

"I won't support you in this." It's half a challenge, and at least a first step. Not a flat-out incitation quite yet, but if he pushes any further, Uther will not be debating with his son—he'll be seeking a way to subdue whatever actions might follow that challenge.

Uther pivots back around. "You have no choice."

"I won't stand by silently and watch you kill him."

"Haven't I told you once before not to look?"

Merlin. Yes. Such sound council that had been. You can't watch him die? Then don't look. Turn away. He drank poison for you, but that is irrelevant. His life is worth less than yours. So pretend none of it is happening. Does Uther really think he doesn't wish it were that simple? Even now, he can't dismiss his father's words. It's a reference to Merlin, and given that Uther has heard the reports from the knights, he has to know what Merlin did.

Wonderful. And here he hadn't thought this situation could get worse.

"If I had, I would have lost a loyal servant."

Yes, loyal. Merlin is not treasonous, no matter how he might have acted when Balinor was arrested.

Though, Uther seems to disagree, and Arthur would very much like to curse when he sees a small, humorless smirk curl the corners of his father's lips. "Yes, perhaps. A loyal servant that shows loyalty for the dragonlord as well." Tucking his hands behind his back, he tips his head back and breathes out heavily through his nose. "Did you think the knights wouldn't report your servant's behavior when I asked for a full account of the events?"

He tries not to let the stiffening in his shoulders show too visibly, though he suspects he fails to some degree. "I had no doubt that they would. And what of it? Merlin, for all his apparent idiocy, has a developed sense of right and wrong."

"So much that he would blatantly commit an act that could be construed as treason? No, Arthur, if that were all it were, he would have waited, tried something later. His actions today were of a man too caught by passion to think logically. Sense of right and wrong or not, no man will do what your boy did for a person they know little to nothing of. There was something that made him care—something beyond a concept of justice."

He doesn't swallow, but it's a near thing. "You're wrong," he counters simply.

"Then he would disobey his king for an ideal?"

There's that urge to curse again, perhaps even more violently: caught in his own words. He shouldn't have walked into that so easily. "He wouldn't commit treason at all. I have never had a more loyal servant. I know he is loyal to the crown."

"He is loyal to _you_." Uther sneers, raising a hand to rest on the back of one of the chairs. "To you, Arthur, and by extension to me. And in most circumstances, that's good enough. But not this circumstances. Not when you oppose me on this as well. I won't allow a divide in my kingdom."

"And you think _Merlin_ would cause that? He's only a servant."

"No, but _your_ dissent would. If you openly oppose me, lines will be drawn. The knights serve under you. You've trained many of them—knighted them, even. They owe much to you. Your servant wouldn't be the only one to follow your example. I won't have that done to my kingdom."

The tension now is nearly tangible: Arthur feels it as though it were a knife up under his ribs, twisting. And now he is only waiting—waiting for the _coup de grace_. His father has more to say. And, oh, it will come, he's sure… and it will be deadly when it does.

"I won't support you on this," he says anyway, knowing already—feeling it in a way that rakes at his nerves—that he's lost.

Slowly, Uther takes another step forward, wrapped in his authority. Right now, he is not a father—he is a king, and Arthur is well aware that he himself is a subject, not just a son. "Then I suggest you make a decision: if you oppose me, or if anything happens to the dragon lord, I will have your servant executed along with him. Or, if by some manner of chance or manipulation, the dragon lord manages to escape, I will execute the boy in his place. Am I clear?"

Yes. So clear that Arthur would like to grab his father and do—do—something, anything to make him remember that he is not this man. He is not someone who would kill a servant simply to spite his son. He's not, is he? He can't be, even if he wouldn't give Gaius that flower, even if he's had children put to death, sometimes mistakenly—no. He is Arthur's father still. Isn't he? _Isn't _he?

Damn it all, _isn't _he?

"Arthur? Am I clear?"

"Merlin has done nothing," he grinds out, voice hoarse even to his own ears.

Uther only nods. "Perhaps. But it isn't about him. It's about you, and about what your duty requires of you. If the only way I can teach you is by the life of a serving boy, then that is a price I will gladly pay."

As if Merlin is worth nothing. Just an expendable life.

"And, Arthur?" Uther continues, arching an eyebrow. "If I were you, I would take care to keep the boy from committing any other acts that might tie him to the dragon lord."

"Father—"

But Uther only holds up a hand to silence him. "Do you think I'm unaware that, if I look, I'll likely find a reason for his behavior?"

Of course his father thinks that. He just has no concept of exactly what he'll find. No doubt he's thinking something small, like a friendship formed over their quick journey. He's not thinking familial relation. He's not thinking sorcerer. If he were, he'd have killed Merlin already.

"I turn a blind eye to this only as a favor to you, Arthur," Uther continues sternly. "But if his behavior—or yours—continues, you'll find that mercy to be quickly withdrawn. He's your responsibility, Arthur—I won't have him disgrace this court."

No, just as Arthur can't have his father looking any closer at Merlin's motives. If he'd just _waited_, not caused a scene, done what Arthur had bloody well _told _him to do…

But he didn't, and there's no help for that now. There's not hope for much, actually, other than perhaps closing this conversation without Merlin's head already half on the chopping block.

Because right now? From Arthur's vantage point, it's looking to be either Merlin's or Balinor's head, and that is, in Arthur's mind, really no choice at all.

Merlin will undoubtedly hate him for his decision.

But he'll be _alive _to hate him.

And, so, because there is nothing else for him to do, he simply inclines his head and gives a half bow. "I understand."

Uther nods in response. "I hope you do."

"I do."

Taking that as a dismissal, he turns from his father, forcing himself to take deep, even strides as he exits the room. That is, of course, easier in theory—when he's so close to simply lashing out at the wall with his fist (not the best of choices under any circumstances) it becomes much harder in practice. He manages it, though, and quickly finds himself out in the hallway, a door finally—thank God—separating him from his father.

He'd still really like to hit something.

But no. That's going to have to wait until after he finds Merlin and stops him from committing whatever foolish action he's inevitably already planning.

And, honestly? Given the mess Merlin's actions have gotten them both into, Arthur can't help but think that Merlin damn well better pray he doesn't end up as the thing that Arthur's hitting, because, right now, that's a very real temptation.

If only Merlin had just kept his mouth _shut_…


	5. Chapter 5

llLethell: Yeah, it seems to be the general consensus that Uther is being pretty cruel. Thanks for reading!

DammitimmaD: *nods* Yes, Merlin doing something stupid seems to be half the show. Poor boy does his best, but sometimes I do really just want to grab him and ask him exactly how he judges an idea to be a good one.

BQ: I think the idea that Arthur and Merlin are loyal to each while still clashing over decisions (and pretty much everything) is what really makes their dynamic interesting. If they agreed on everything, the loyalty wouldn't be nearly as complex.

bookaddict27: Balinor does have a reason for not trying to escape. It's kind of hinted at in his conversation with the Great Dragon, but it will be clearer later.

Balinorfan: Well, I will tell you that the next part has a lot of Balinor in it, so I'm glad you're enjoying his character.

Starts with a D: Oh, yes, Balinor could have done something—he chose not to. That will be explained more fully later on.

Joosj: I have no idea why, but I seem to always put the characters I like in terrible situations. Ah, the angst… About the dragon: I assume that Balinor could call him. In this case, he just chooses not to. Although, he didn't do it in the show, either. Odd. I guess I'm not really sure. Now I'm curious, though…

ruby890: Aww, thanks.

Alaia Skyhawk: *sigh* So true.

Emachinescat: Thank you!

* * *

><p>One winter when Merlin was younger, Ealdor nearly ran out of food. It had been a combination of an early winter and a late spring, resulting in a longer freeze than usual. By the end of it, the ache in his belly had been awful. He couldn't have been more than five at the time, young enough not to understand the concept of starvation. There had always been food. Maybe not much, maybe not especially palatable, but he'd never gone hungry to that degree before.<p>

He'd cried at first. He'd been hungry and tired—the emptiness in his stomach had kept him awake—and his mother had rocked him for hours on end, singing. Though the words have slipped from his memory with time, he remembers the melody, and, sometimes, when no one is listening, and when he just n_eeds _it, he hums.

That soft hum is, he assumes, what allows Arthur to find him now. Admittedly, he's not really trying to hide—not from Arthur, at least. Of course, he wasn't really trying to let Arthur find him either, which, though not originally much of a problem in his mind, is apparently going to be a sticking point now, because Arthur looks a little like he does when Merlin has forgotten something Very Important.

"Are you completely mentally deficient?" Arthur snaps when he finally halts his rather forceful stomping—though Arthur would undoubtedly find a far more dignified word for it—once he's come to stand in front of Merlin. "Sitting in a corner in the hallway above the dungeons? Honestly?"

It hadn't seemed like such a bad idea at the time—still doesn't, actually. The guards don't get any less vigilant at night, but it does at least get darker, and he knows a few spells to bend the shadows to his body. It wouldn't be enough to hide him entirely, but it would be something, and there's only an hour or so until the sun sets…

Sunset or not, it doesn't look like he's going to be getting the chance to try anything: Arthur reaches down, closing his hand in Merlin's shirt, and gives a harsh yank upwards, utterly disregarding the way Merlin half falls over himself trying to relieve the pressure of the cloth pulling tight against his neck, choking him.

"Any—ah—particular reason… you're t-trying to… strangle me?" is about all he can manage to get out.

One shove later and he's up against the wall, doing his very best not to wince at how stone feels when he hits it with his back. Arthur didn't shove that hard—at least not compared to what he could do… but, then, again, it's _Arthur. _This is the man who thinks that blows can be friendly—something done among the knights to build camaraderie. It isn't much of a stretch—especially not since Merlin learned first hand—to carry that principle further and discern that what Arthur considers a light shove or a playful smack might actually leave bruises.

"Oh, I don't know, Merlin," Arthur drawls, so heavy on the sarcasm that Merlin just barely manages to refrain from snippily positing that it can't be healthy. "Let's try this: any particular reason you're sitting in the hallway to the dungeons?"

He shrugs. It's not as though he's going to admit to anything. If Arthur truly expects that he will, he's more of clotpole than Merlin previously assumed (and that _certainly _can't be good for his health).

"No?" Arthur asks, leaning in, tilting his head a fraction to the side. "No answer? Fine. Then let me tell you what it looks like, and you can correct any inaccuracies in my interpretation." Backing up a small amount—not nearly enough to give Merlin the luxury of feeling like he's not being interrogated, and, oh, wait, silly him, that's _exactly what Arthur's doing—_he at least stops pinning Merlin to the wall. "You seem to be waiting—badly, I might add, because humming is not conducive to discretion—outside the area where a certain prisoner is being held. You have not been to see Gaius. I know, because he told me as much when I went there to find you. So, I'd be willing to wager that you've been here—"

"You don't like betting," Merlin mutters, looking away.

"—since you got back to the castle."

Which is really just a nice way of saying since he woke up in the courtyard, slung over his horse's saddle in altogether too embarrassing manner. How he managed to remain unconscious so long, Merlin really doesn't even want to think (of course, that just means he thinks about it _more_), but if he had to guess, he might try the idea that maybe that arrow didn't render Balinor as incapable of using magic as he had thought. That'd be a small matter to clear up with his father if he could just _talk _to him…

"Now, if by chance, someone else had found you here, what do you think that would have looked like?"

It might _almost_ be worth the backlash to mention that whatever it might have looked like, it would have looked better than the obnoxious look of speculation that Arthur has pasted onto his features…

"Thanks to your display earlier, it's no secret that you opposed Balinor's arrest. So, think _very _hard, Merlin: what are people going to think if they find you lurking outside the dungeons?"

Right. Like he's actually going to answer that.

"What? No guess? I'll help then: they'd think you were trying to possibly aid him, idiot!"

Arthur will probably see it—and rightly so—as an admittance, but all Merlin can really do is look away a little more firmly and worry at his lip with his teeth. If he doesn't see the incredulous, irritated, and probably downright furious look on Arthur's face, he won't even have to pretend to ignore it.

Arthur, for his part, just manages to sound resigned to what he undoubtedly perceives as Merlin's stupidity. "Right. That's exactly what you were doing. Good plan, Merlin."

"I didn't say I'd thought it out—"

Arthur's hand smacks hard against the wall. He's probably wanted to hit something for a while. It's actually rather admirable that he's managed to abstain until now. Even more amazingly, Merlin isn't even the recipient.

"You're not doing much thinking at all, are you?" Arthur snarls.

"If it was your fath—"

He gets no warning before Arthur's hand smacks over his mouth, hard enough that the momentum propels him back against the wall again, cracking his head into the stones hard enough that he has to blink to clear the flashing dots from his vision. "Are you brainless?" Arthur hisses, leaning in until he's inches from Merlin's face. From here, Merlin can easily see the raw anger boiling in his gaze: his pupils contract and expand successively, and while that's probably only from the changing light, it doesn't make him look any less dangerous. "You are not to speak of that. Not at all. Not where anyone can hear you. Honestly, Merlin, are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Thankfully, he at least lets go then, pushing himself back away from Merlin to lean against the opposite wall. The alcove is small: only a few feet wide, and in the past, these sort of spaces have been very handy for both him and Arthur when they've needed to hide from someone passing by. It's still handy now. Though, it would be even more useful if Arthur hadn't apparently decided to do exactly what he's doing: that is, prevent Merlin from doing anything halfway useful to help his father.

"You know why I'm doing this," he throws out at Arthur, glaring over at him.

"You can't _do _anything. You can't—damn it all, I can't explain here." Reaching out, he grabs Merlin's shirt again. "Let's go."

Merlin deserves a prize. He really does. Because the amount of self-control it takes not make some sort of rude noise? It's at least worthy of being recognized by no less than a day off, and he can't quite believe that Arthur has entirely failed to notice that, even if he very conveniently ignores it. Infinite patience—that must be what he's got when dealing with Arthur. And Arthur must have been skipped over for common sense: there's no other possible explanation for why he would ever believe Merlin is going to leave his father to go have a _chat_.

That might create a problem—because Arthur seems to think he's equally as mental for intending to refuse.

Actually, he just looks furious, like it's a personal affront when Merlin plants his feet and doesn't move with the tug. "Merlin, I swear, if you don't do as I say, I will knock you out again, and I will drag you—"

"Aren't you trying to avoid being conspicuous?"

"_Mer_lin—"

Or not: it seems Arthur's willing to sacrifice that to get the results he wants.

Though, that doesn't seem to be entirely correct—not if the way Arthur peeks out around the corner is anything to judge by. One hand holding his weight, Arthur pushes into the wall, head poking out into the hallway, though he pulls back before Merlin has any real chance to guess at what he may or may not have seen. In this case, it seems to be "may not," because after another quick glance, he attempts to bodily haul Merlin out into the light.

Of course, "attempt" might be a bit of a… hopeful assessment of the situation: Merlin certainly doesn't appreciate the almost bruising grip on his arm, but if Arthur were _really_ attempting, he'd succeed. He still might: just because he's not truly trying yet doesn't mean he's not going to run out of what little patience he had to begin with.

Honestly, right now, the best plan looks like trying to slip by him before he makes a _real_ effort.

Somewhat surprisingly, Merlin almost makes it. Maybe it's because Arthur wasn't expecting him to actually try to run. Maybe it's something else. He doesn't care very much, because the promise of a way to slip back out from under Arthur's eye—to hide somewhere else, this time where he won't be found, until night falls and he has a better chance at getting into the dungeon—is far too alluring. In fact, it's so alluring that he imagines he's gained it before he's done anything of the sort.

Hands on his back, sharp, truly angry now, and far, far too rough when they grab his arm and twist it up behind his back. Just like how they first met. Some other time, that might be funny.

_Still don't know how to walk on my knees, you arrogant ass._

Sounds choke up in his throat, if only to make a scene with the intention of thoroughly infuriating Arthur (he's not above petty revenge), but this time, Arthur seems to anticipate the action and cuts him off before he can.

"The king already suspects you have some sort of attachment to Balinor. You want to call attention to the fact that you're here?" he snaps, free hand up in front of Merlin's face, too closely to be anything but a warning. "Give validity to his suspicions? You might not care about your own life, Merlin, but I can guarantee you that if my father thinks someone is trying to aid Balinor in an escape, he'll kill him all the faster." He jerks Merlin's arm up a little bit tighter, making Merlin bite back against the pain. "Do you want that?"

He knows his lack of an answer is answer enough.

"Then for once in your life, do as I tell you."

"As I tell you" apparently means start walking: Arthur shoves him between the shoulder blades, not hard enough to make him fall, but enough to make a very clear point. _Move. Now._

This time he does.

So help him, though, what can this possibly achieve? His father is going to die. To _burn_. And Arthur wants to talk. They're walking down the corridors like nothing is wrong, like every person they stroll oh-so-casually past doesn't peer at Merlin out of the corner of his or her eye, conveying thoughts with a look as effectively as with a word. Gossip has always set the castle burning, and Merlin's more than once been involved (hard not to be when he serves the prince, who seems to draw up events that just begged to be talked about), but it's never been like this before. It's never cut so close, because it never mattered quite so much.

Balinor will die, and he can't do anything. His magic is useless. And hearing whispers about his situation—regardless of whether they know anything about the actual situation—squeezes his chest tight until concentrating on drawing breath seems to actually be necessary.

Damn all of this. And damn Arthur for finding a very good way to stop him from interfering.

That's worst of all, he thinks as they scale a staircase, heading into the corridor leading to Arthur's bedroom. He's had to struggle to control his magic his whole life, and then Arthur, like the bloody entitled prince that he is, doesn't even seem to notice how cruel it is that he can control Merlin's magic on just a word. He may not be able to use it for himself, but stopping it is enough. More than enough. Because Merlin can't prevent him from doing it, and he can't stop his father from dying if he can't do magic, and—

"Sit."

He hadn't really noticed that they'd reached Arthur's room, and even now, it's not of much consequence beyond the fact that there's a solid chair in front of him; he sinks down onto it gratefully, only belatedly realizing that it's actually Arthur's chair. The one with the fur backing. The one Arthur has made clear that Merlin is never to sit in.

And the one that Arthur had just now deliberately knocked away from the table with his foot so that it was available to Merlin.

Right. Well, that's about as close to an apology as he'll ever get from Arthur. And it's not even verbal. It's a _piece of furniture_.

Leaning back against the fur, he closes his eyes and tries not to hate Arthur.

No, not hate. He can't hate him.

But he can sure as anything can be furious with him.

"You think I'm being unfair," Arthur says after a few moments pause.

Fur tickles against Merlin's neck, but he doesn't lean forward—doesn't even open his eyes. Let Arthur throw him in the dungeons if he finds that insolent. At this point, that's exactly what Merlin wants… which only really guarantees that Arthur won't do it. "He's going to die. And I could save him."

"Could you?" No denial. Just a simple, evenly stated question.

"Of course."

Oddly, all that results in is Arthur sighing and turning away. When he moves, he does it slowly, half dragging his feet until he reaches the fireplace. Even then he doesn't do much: just stares at it, finally bracing his hands against it and bending forward until his head hangs between his arms to the degree that a still stiff neck—because Arthur's pride would never permit for anything else—will allow.

"I wish I didn't believe you. It would make this easier."

Merlin's eyes flutter open. "If you believe me, why won't you let me?"

Hands still on the wall, shoulders tense, and so unbelievably still—it's hard to tell if Arthur is even breathing. "If Balinor escapes, or if I oppose his execution, Uther has promised to execute you in his place." Still no sound—if he was breathing before, he seems to be holding his breath now.

All that proves is that Arthur knows how that sounds—how that _is_. He hadn't wanted to say it, obviously, and Merlin really would like not to hold that against him. Truly, he would. Damn it, though, Arthur can't treat this like everything else—like something that's under his jurisdiction.

Because this is not his father. This is not his life.

It's _Merlin's_.

"Let him have a go at it, then," Merlin counters, trying not to imagine just how insane he sounds when a bitter laugh froths up over his lips. "If I die, I die, but I might just manage to escape. If you let me, that is." Cruel? Yes. Arthur probably didn't deserve that, and it's hard to bury the slight prickle of remorse that follows.

Strangely, though, Arthur doesn't react. He just keeps standing there, bent over, staring down into the flames. "And you'll run… and my father will track you just like he tracked Balinor, only worse, because he'll have seen your magic. He'll want you dead, because it will be personal. You were in his household. You made him look like a fool, helping the last dragon lord escape, then managing to escape yourself. He'll hunt you, and when he threatens the people you care for, what will you do then, Merlin?" Finally, he turns, spinning sharp on his heel, and immediately, Merlin just wishes he'd turn back around. He doesn't like the harsh, almost pained pinch of Arthur's face. "My father never knew about Balinor's relationship with your mother. But he knows her relation to _you_, Merlin. If he knows you're a sorcerer, that makes her guilty of harboring you. Everyone around you will be suspect. He'll tear apart anything you've touched, and I _know _you, Merlin. You'll give yourself up. And you'll _die_."

Pausing then, Arthur pulls back a little, staring over at Merlin with clear blue eyes. They're too clear—Merlin can see the tension there as clearly as he can see it in the hard set of Arthur's lips, and even in the way his cheekbones have sharpened with the clench of his jaw.

"It's you or Balinor. That's just the way it is."

He stands. One hand drifts to the tabletop for steadiness, though he hardly registers the feel of wood under his fingers. "Then it's me," he says simply. And then again: "It's me."

Because it is. _That _is just the way it is.

But Arthur only shakes his head. "No." As though it's that simple. He might even genuinely think it is. "What you gave me—what you gave up—it means I have to allow this. And I won't. Whether you meant to or not, when you gave me that hold on your magic, you gave me this decision. And I've decided: it won't be you."

Ice. Cold, hard, hot, fiery ice heating his insides and chilling his blood. That's all. It's all Merlin can feel.

Arthur has _no_ right. None. Arrogance is not an excuse, and it's not a reason—not one Merlin is willing to accept. Not on either count.

"You gave me your word that you wouldn't abuse that!"

"I said I wouldn't use it for anything less than to protect you or the people of Camelot," he says, his stare hard, blue like ice more than the sky, and there's certainly no sign of a thaw. "I haven't gone against that."

One step forward, and the next too, because it comes easier, until he's across the room, close enough to Arthur that he can smell the sweat on him. It's been a long stretch for both of them, and if things weren't so terribly wrong, Arthur would call for a bath… and Merlin would not be inches from the man who could order his death at any moment, but who instead is refusing to let him sacrifice his life.

A tingle slips down his arms. Not magic, though. Not with Arthur.

"I'll try something without magic, then. And you can't stop _that_."

"Not with just a thought," Arthur acknowledges, nodding, but so resolute. His mind is made up.

It's a little laughable that he doesn't seem to realize that they at least have that in common at the moment.

The tingle stops when Merlin's nails dig into the palms of his hands. When did he start clenching his fists? "If it was your father—"

"I'd be doing exactly what you're doing."

No denial there, then, and isn't that so very Arthur? Situations like these—hard ones—he deals with the straight facts. It's methodical, clean, and so riddled with emotions that he's forced to shove those inclinations down until the job is done. Situation contained.

Another innocent life fallen to Uther.

Merlin's running before he even thinks about it.

His father's death won't be on him, and even before he reaches the door, he knows he won't get there. Arthur is bigger, stronger, and trained so well that he could probably take Merlin down wearing a blindfold (and, regrettably, that's not an exaggeration anymore, not after Merlin watched him do it to some of his newer knights). The only thing that's really surprising about the situation is that Arthur is gentler than Merlin would have expected—or at least as gentle as he can be when twisting Merlin's arm up behind him like he thinks it actually ought to bend that way. It's true, though: his fingers have no more bite than necessary, and he's only holding Merlin's arm back hard enough to stop him from moving—not far enough to do damage.

All that really makes Merlin want to do is kick him.

"Just because I'd do it too, Merlin, doesn't mean I'm going to let _you_ do it."

A sharp jerk reminds him that, yes, Arthur _does _have his shoulder twisted back, even if he's not actively trying to cause damage. "You'll just let him die?"

"Yes. Because the alternative is less acceptable."

"I want to see him."

"I know. I'll do what I can."

"So will I," Merlin mutters, very aware that it sounds exactly like the threat it's meant to be.

Arthur's response is only a frustrated, "No doubt," underscored with a resigned sigh.

To be fair, though, those two words are a pretty poor warning for the way he's suddenly shoved down into Arthur's chair. It's also probably not an accident that the collision is hard enough to stun him for a few seconds, just long enough for Arthur to have somehow gotten behind him, hand still on his wrist, twisting his arm up behind him again, this time with the back of the chair in between Merlin's arm and his shoulder.

With his free hand, Arthur reaches forward and calmly begins to untie Merlin's neckerchief, pulling at the knot firmly enough that the cloth drags against Merlin's neck, smearing the skin out of place. Glaring, Merlin jerks a couple of times, trying to make it harder—and, honestly, he's almost tempted to laugh at how, if he were this incorrigible over anything else, Arthur would have him in the stocks for _years_—but the spikes of pain he gets from Arthur's tightening hold just really aren't worth it. A broken arm won't do him much good.

Of course, neither will having his hands tied to the chair. Regrettably, there doesn't seem to be much he can do about that, either, though. Arthur's quick with a knot, looping the cloth around the top of a leg of the chair: if left alone, Merlin's pretty sure he could get it undone, but, unfortunately, if he knows that, Arthur probably does too. Of course, this is one time Merlin would really like to be wrong. He'll even take Arthur's taunts. Useless, buffoon, girl, girl's petticoat (and what does that even mean?), whatever—he'd just like to be wrong.

Predictably, he's not. Wonderful.

It doesn't take Arthur long to go to the bed for an additional sheet, ripping part of it off into a more suitable binding. His fingers are warm when they brush against Merlin's skin as they work at tying them down, and at the very least, this doesn't feel like any of the other times he's been restrained. He wouldn't have thought Arthur would be any more careful, but the way he's doing it—it's almost apologetic.

Not that Merlin's ready to accept that apology.

A minute or so later, there's really no uncertainty about escape: Merlin won't be getting his hands free on his own… and he won't be getting out of this room while tied to a fairly heavy chair.

He could yell, cuss Arthur out. Part of him would like to. But what good would it do? There's not much worse than the mask of nothing that Arthur's giving him—that hard, cold, I'm-doing-what-I-have-to-even-if-I-don't-like-it look that he sometimes wears when his father gives him orders he finds unfavorable—and anything Merlin does now is only going to cement that more firmly in place.

"Wait here," Arthur tells him tonelessly. "I give you my word that I'll try to find a way for you to see him. That's the best I can do right now."

That thing about not yelling? Stupid decision. It's worth it. At this point, it just _is_.

"No," Merlin spits, surprising even himself with the venom in his tone, "that's not true. You could do better. You could let me save him. You could let me save him with my magic like I save _you_. What's the difference, Arthur?" His voice is rising in pitch, and he can't stop it, doesn't even really want to, not even when his lungs start burning because he hasn't stopped to take a breath. "Because he's not you? Is that it? Does that make him worth less! Less worthy to be saved-" One final burn, and his lungs take over, straining, sucking in air. If he could, he'd hide his face, hide the way he knows it's probably tinged red. He likely looks awful right now, face all flushed and eyes glassy with tears he will _not _let come.

He gets nothing but silence, at least until Arthur's footsteps echo softly in the room. And then, so calm that it feels like _nothing_, Arthur's voice, determined in a way he only ever gets when his mind is made up, comes from over near the door. "I'm sorry. Truly, I am."

And the thing that really makes Merlin's gut twist? He probably _is_.

Then the door shuts behind him, as hard and final as anything Merlin has ever heard, and he can't stop the dry sob that wells up in his throat at that. He can't, doesn't want to, can't, won't, anything—his father is going to die, and Arthur won't let him stop it, won't let him, took his magic, is going to make him let Balinor _die_—

A low keen rips out of him. And he only just notices then that his cheeks feel wet.

He doesn't bother to try to wipe the moisture away.


	6. Chapter 6

Starts with a D: Honestly? That's pretty much how I feel. I understand where both are coming from, but at this point, I don't see much else Arthur could do.

Desiree1717: I completely agree! I think that's a major thing the show struggles with: if they make him too powerful, it's not interesting, but at the same time, he's supposed to become this guy who's the world's greatest sorcerer, so he can't seem to lacking in power either.

Emachinescat: Thank you!

yarra: Aww, that's very nice of you. Believe me, though, there are a lot of very talented Merlin authors out there that I stand to learn a lot from. Try checking livejournal. There's a lot of good stuff over there.

noreallyidontcare: I do enjoy me a good plot! :) I'm glad you think I'm doing it justice, though.

ruby890: They certainly are going to have a lot to work through.

bookaddict27: Agreed. In just about every option available to them, someone loses big.

llLethell: I think Merlin's best quality is his occasional snarkiness. :)

BloodFromTheThorn: I'll write a happier story at some point. Promise!

DammitimmaD: Yes, he definitely does.

Starzinmieyez: Yeah, that seems to happen to him a lot.

finn1013: Thanks!

JBQ: There really is no good answer. Whatever decision is made, someone is going to lose.

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><p>Arthur has spent time in the dungeons before. Yes, it smells, the straw is uncomfortable, and the darkness strains a person's eyes until a headache almost inevitably digs in behind the eye sockets, but it's not intolerable. Or, more specifically, it's never been intolerable for <em>him<em>, not when he's never had to accept this place as the last thing he'll ever see beyond the headman's axe or a funeral pyre. To spend his last days here—he can't imagine… not that he's ever really tried. He hasn't had much reason to until now.

Now, though—now that he's standing just beyond the iron bars, staring unashamedly at the man within the cell, he can't quite settle his uneasiness. Those few times he's displeased his father enough to warrant a stay in the dungeons, he's always had the assurance of an eventual return to warm room and a comfortable bed. Balinor—he doesn't have that. He really doesn't have _anything_ anymore, despite being no guiltier of a crime than Arthur is.

The air suddenly feels a little more chilled.

Catching his thumb on the inside of his shirt cuff—half for warmth, half just for the sake of making some movement to take his mind off the itch that feels suspiciously like guilt—he notes that Balinor hasn't yet acknowledged his presence. Whether that's because he's ignoring Arthur or he hasn't registered his approach, it's uncertain, but either way, Arthur is at least willing to give him ground on this. This is something he can understand: no one wants to see an enemy when the hours of your life are slipping away.

The dragon lord is curled in the back of the cell, one knee up, his arm perched haphazardly on it. The other leg juts straight in front of him, and he leans back against the wall, head resting on the cold stone. How he's tipped his chin back pulls the black mess of hair—clearly it's been a good long while since he's combed it—away from his face, leaving Arthur with a clear view of that blank expression and those closed eyes.

"I _do _know you're there, boy."

The gruff tone is a bit startling—not that Arthur would ever admit it. It doesn't seem like he needs to, though: watching Balinor's lips curl, not cruelly, but with near bitter amusement, he's fairly certain Balinor knows anyway. And why not? He wouldn't have hidden so successfully for this long if he hadn't known whether people meant him harm or… not kindness, probably, but mere indifference, sometimes probably pity. By this point Arthur would be willing to bet that he's an expert at reading people's intentions, feeling their presence.

"Where are the guards?" Balinor asks after a moment, opening his eyes and tipping his face back forward.

"At the entrance to the cells. We've a bit of privacy for the moment."

"Oh?" One eyebrow arches. "I'd have thought your father wouldn't allow it."

Under normal circumstances? He wouldn't have… and there's really no reason to hide what changed the situation. It is, after all, what he's here to discuss.

"If you disappear, my father has promised to execute Merlin in your place. Apparently, he believes that even if I think this is unjust, I value my manservant's life more than yours. Guards or not, he doesn't think I'll try to get you out."

Now, finally, Balinor leans his whole body forward away from the wall, a bit of real, genuine interest showing for the first time since Arthur arrived. Merlin. Apparently, all it took was mentioning Merlin. "And _do_ you value his life more?"

"Yes."

"You answer quickly."

"Merlin has never been anything but loyal to me. I'm not in the habit of repaying loyalty with betrayal."

"Not so like your father, then."

The slow, ironic drag of the words shouldn't make that a compliment, but Balinor's gaze is not unkind, nor is it particularly accusatory. Bitter, yes, but the sharpness of the word "father" gives away exactly whom that bitterness is meant for.

Arthur's a bit surprised to find he's pleased it's not him.

Of course, that doesn't mean he'll stand the insult to his father. "My father is a good man. A good king," he snaps back. Because he _is_. It's only in the area of magic that something in him seems to twist. That one twist, though—surely it can't make him evil, can it? Flawed, yes, but that's just like any man.

"A good man does not avoid what he knows to be right just because it becomes too personal."

"You know nothing of what my father has faced!"

Balinor's brow arches again, but while the gesture should be mocking, it's only a shade of that. It's hinted at, certainly, but Arthur is more struck by the pity… and damn it all, he _hates _pity.

"I was here in Camelot when you were born. When your mother died. I know very well what your father faced."

No. He doesn't. Just because he saw it doesn't mean he _knows_. "He's done what he's thought was right." Not with Arthur's agreement, but, then, he's well aware that Uther doesn't need it.

"If you can't even see the evil of what he's done, you'll never right his wrongs."

He despises the condescension of that, and, temper rising, he jerks his leg, pushing the toe of his boot harder against the ground. His foot doesn't move forward, but the resistance of stone against leather is at least a conduit for his tension. "I didn't come down here for a lecture."

Balinor just nods. "Then what did you come for?"

"Merlin wants to see you."

If Arthur hadn't witnessed the manner in which Balinor regarded his son, he wouldn't think it was possible to genuinely interest the man in anything beyond his own self-interests. Too many years alone. Too many betrayals. This, though: the way he braces a hand on the straw-littered floor and pushes himself to his feet at the mention of Merlin is enough to tear down that assumption. Merlin interests him—not that anything about that ought to be surprising. Merlin _should _interest him. He's Balinor's _son_.

Reality be damned, though: Arthur still can't quite get his mind around that.

"I can't risk it," Arthur continues, swallowing past the dryness in his throat. "After that scene he put on after the dragon—his relationship to you is already suspect. This would—" He breaks off, rubbing a hand at his forehead. "This would be seen as more evidence of his guilt. And I don't want anyone looking for a connection. If he hadn't been so foolish as to rush in without thinking…"

Again, Balinor nods, though it's impossible to tell what he's really thinking. Is he considering where Merlin might have gotten that trait? Because Hunith didn't strike Arthur as particularly impulsive, and that's got to come from somewhere. Is Balinor wishing Merlin had better sense?

Arthur can't believe he's the only one who's thinking those things.

No, shake that thought off. Easier just to step closer to the door, to stare over at Balinor with as much authority as he reasonably feels is due to him. After a man holds your kingdom in his hands, it's difficult to regard him as entirely controllable. Authority is something he's owed, but what exactly is owing when you don't have the means to make someone pay?

"And if I bring him down here, it'll be much harder to have an excuse to knock him out—not when this place," he says, gesturing to the walls around them, "is literally built to contain. It would seem logical to just throw him in a cell. Anything else would seem…" Suspicious. Foolish. Like he was trying to hide something. All entirely correct assumptions, unfortunately. "And, anyhow, I doubt knocking him out would do much good: you kept him out until we reached the castle, didn't you?"

Balinor gives him no answer, but there is a slight tug at his cheeks, flickering down to the corners of his mouth. Even when he blinks and looks down, there's nothing smacking of denial in his manner.

So, that's a yes, then.

"I should thank you for that, I suppose. I haven't found many efficient ways to keep Merlin silent."

Ironic, since he's can't seem to find any ways to get Merlin's father to talk. Perhaps it's just best to lay out the actual reason he's here: "I want to tell my father you've enchanted Merlin."

A soft scuff on the floor signals movement; Arthur doesn't bother to really look until Balinor is already only a few feet away from the door. He says nothing, but he holds Arthur's eyes, hardly blinking.

"You're already condemned. My father will kill you, magic or not. And… an explanation like that would excuse Merlin's behavior." At Balinor's nod of acknowledgement, he presses on, one hand reaching forward to close fingers loosely around a bar. He can feel the grime of metal under his fingertips. It's not pleasant. "It would also give me an excuse to bring him here. I could tell my father you'd promised to lift the spell. Merln's behavior won't change, of course, but my father would certainly believe you went back on your word at the last moment."

Balinor's lips part, and Arthur expects immediate words. Unsurprisingly, Balinor denies his expectations, choosing instead to exhale so softly that Arthur nearly misses it. Only then does he look away, lips smoothing back together in a hard line before they open again for a simple, firm, "Do it."

Just like that. Like it's that easy. And it shouldn't be. Should it?

"It'll mean I have to support your execution. I'll have to stand there watching you burn and pretend that I believe you deserve it."

Balinor just smiles… and there's that pity again. "And which of us will that bother more?"

"I don't follow your meaning." _Liar_, his conscience chides, in total agreement with the sudden twisting of his stomach. Of course he understands. He just doesn't _want _to.

A dip of Balinor's shoulder, and he half turns away. "You think too much of yourself. I've lived years with no man's approval. I hardly crave yours now." He sounds almost amused, or he would if he didn't sound equally as bitter.

"Fair enough." It's not, obviously. Nothing about this is fair. Even the silence that settles between them now doesn't seem just—not when there's infinitely more that needs to be said… and that will probably never even be fully thought.

Balinor is the one to break the silence. Just four soft words, slipping out between the bars of the cell, but they hit Arthur as hard as most any blow he's ever physically received. "You have a conscience."

"You thought otherwise?"

"I had no reason to consider you beyond your blood."

"And you do now?"

"We both know I do," he admits, turning back to face Arthur with a solemn expression that pulls as the lids of his eyes, stranding them only half-open.

Arthur doesn't doubt what he's referring to, just as he doesn't doubt that Balinor is asking for Arthur to acknowledge that conscience may indeed be leading him in a different direction from his father: perhaps it will just be easiest to acknowledge the reference and give an answer in the same breath. "Would your son follow someone who did not?"

"You know him better than I," Balinor responds quietly. Still, Arthur does have to admire the way he won't drop his gaze. There's pain there—a knowledge of a life lost—but he won't refuse to face Arthur with it. He won't run from the things that threaten—torment—him.

It seems he's passed something on to his son after all.

Pity he hadn't also given Merlin the good sense to know the difference between bravery and a truly abysmal sense of self-preservation.

"I'm sorry for that."

No sorrier than Balinor, though, he can see. A life lost, a family unknown, and when found, snatched away again before he had time to truly find it. It's a more than adequate explanation for the emptiness of his gaze as he stares through the bars at Arthur.

It does _not _account for the sudden, brief flair of life Arthur sees there.

"Tell me something about my son," Balinor suddenly says, voice rough: he raises his hands, resting them on the metal between himself and Arthur. Arthur's own hand, which had remained curled around the bars, drops.

"What do you want to know?"

"There's little I _don't _want to know."

Fair enough. Easiest just to say whatever jumps into his head, then: "Merlin is good with animals. I'm rather inclined to believe that my own horse prefers him to me."

That spark jumps again in Balinor's gaze; he clenches his fingers on the bar a little harder. "Something else."

"He steals food from me sometimes."

A nod.

"I suspect it's seldom for him. Merlin has a tendency to want to fix all the wrongs in the world, even with something as small as giving parts of my dinner to those he feels need it."

Balinor's mouth thins, almost as if he's hiding a small smile. "You don't stop him?"

"He's not stealing for personal gain. And I always have enough food."

They're… talking about food. About how Merlin steals his food. He, the crown prince is standing here in the dungeon, talking to a dragon lord about Merlin, and about how Merlin _nicks his food_. It's unbelievable. Laughable, even, and, yet, Arthur can't help but feel that this is owed to Balinor. If Arthur's mother were alive, if she were suddenly found, someone should do this for her if she asked. If she wanted to know about him…

He would want her to know these things. Shouldn't Merlin's father get that chance?

"Your son is a good man." Because that is what Arthur would want her to hear. Because he imagines it's the best of what a parent _wants_ to hear. And because it's true.

One look at the way Balinor's fingers slip off the bars, suddenly relaxed, just like his face, is enough to confirm he's made the right choice. All he gets in return is a short, soft, "I know," but it sounds like a prayer of thanks, and God help them all, this is a terrible, terrible situation, but looking at Balinor right now—hearing him say those two words—is enough to make Arthur think that maybe Balinor won't die quite as haunted by over two decades of demons as it had seemed, just a few moments ago, that he would.

Both he and Balinor exhale at the same time. "It's hard to miss," Arthur says quietly, giving him a small nod.

He gets one in return. An agreement met, then.

And then he turns away from the cell. He walks away. Out of the dungeons. Up the stairs. Toward where he knows his father will be.

He walks into a lie, and maybe he's damned for thinking so, but he can't help but believe that this lie—this false accusation—will be the kindest thing anyone has done for Balinor since he left Ealdor.

Arthur can't give him his freedom. He can't even give him his support. But he can give him a lie that will get him his son.

It's the best he can do. And, as he nods shortly to the guards before he pushes the doors to his father's chambers open, he finds that he'd like to think it's at least _something_.

Something that will matter.

* * *

><p>Merlin can feel the block on his magic. It's not what he thought it would be: not hard, like a wall, and certainly not inflexible. Instead, when he pokes at it, it moves with him, kind of like when he used to get tangled inside his blankets. He'd always frantically pressed his hands to the cloth, trying to work his way out, but the blanket had always molded to his touch, shifting with him, but still containing him as easily as something solidly fixed.<p>

It's impossible to tell if Arthur can feel him prodding at the block. If he does, it hasn't made him come running back to check: either he's confident it will hold, or he's not aware that Merlin's trying to find a way around it.

Knowing Arthur, Merlin would bet it's the former. He's all self-assurance and sometimes arrogance mixed in, but for all the times that's gotten Arthur into trouble, Merlin can't help but admit that today will not be one of those times.

He can't break out of the dampening on his magic—not while Arthur is consciously holding it away from him.

It's a bit like the cloth still holding him to the chair, he thinks bitterly, tugging again at it and getting nothing but more soreness from where he's already rubbed the skin red: it's not coming off until Arthur makes a conscious decision to remove it. Though, unlike the bindings, with the magic all it would take would be one thought.

The thing is, he's pretty sure Arthur can't completely block him. It seems that way, anyway, what with how he can still move small objects around the room, so long as he in no way tries to free himself. No, it's got to be a specific command. _Don't use your magic to escape from this. Don't use it to free your father. _Those are specific. _Don't use your magic at all for anything _would probably be harder for Arthur to maintain, because that's just the way of magic: there's always a balance. In order to have this kind of power, Arthur must be expending something. When the commands are tailored to certain situations, it might not even be anything that makes any difference, but a wide, sweeping statement—something that yanked Merlin's magic entirely out of the world—would undoubtedly cost him something. Effort, probably—the kind he might not be able to sustain.

In all honesty, Merlin can't help but hope Arthur gives it a try. The harder he has to work to suppress Merlin's magic, the better chance Merlin will have at finding a way around this.

Though, when the door abruptly slams open and Arthur comes barreling through it, that doesn't seem to be quite what Arthur has in mind. It's difficult to tell what he actually is thinking, however, largely because Merlin doesn't even get a good look at his face: Arthur is already behind him, fingers working at the knots tying Merlin to the chair.

"Not that I don't _appreciate _your willingness to finally untie me," he drawls, "but is there any particular reason why—?"

"Hold still," Arthur reprimands sharply, still loosening the knots. "My father believes you've been enchanted to help Balinor. I've convinced him that I've managed to persuade Balinor to lift that enchantment, and so he's agreed to let me take you down to the dungeons to see him."

It'd be so easy to hear nothing beyond the fact that he'll get to speak more with his father: his wrists are released, a little rubbing at the irritated skin will put everything good as new, he's allowed to see Balinor, and maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to find a way to get his father out… But, no, that's not really the way it is at all.

Arthur knows it too: if he didn't, he wouldn't accept Merlin's glare as he stands up and rises off the chair, moving to meet Arthur on even eye level. "Let me help him."

"You can help him by talking to him."

No. Arthur's got to _see_— "Arthur—"

Arthur's hand lands on his shoulder, half a command and half comfort—or as close to comfort as Arthur knows how to get. "No. It'll be your head on the block."

"And I'm willing to pay that price!" he volleys back, shrugging Arthur's hand off. "I am!"

But Arthur just looks at him, too forced to be natural, and too determined for Merlin to question the resolve behind it. "I'm not," he says, like it's _that simple_.

"It's not your price to pay—"

"Stop it." Sharp, hard. "I won't listen to this now. I've made my decision. Hate me for it if you have to, but also keep in mind that it's a decision Balinor agrees with." Moving forward, he reaches out again, clasping Merlin's shoulder harder this time, firmly enough that Merlin's shirt bunches up in his fist. "And, Merlin," he murmurs, leaning in until Merlin can't look anywhere else but at him, "what makes you think you have any right to force him to let your life be traded for his? Do you think he wants that?" A sharp jerk, and when he doesn't get an answer, he just jostles a little harder until Merlin finally gives him a reluctant shake of his head. "No? You're right about that, at least. First thing in ages, it seems, but still…"

Harsh words, and the furthest thing from understanding, but even with his insides all but crawling out of him in rage, Merlin knows Arthur doesn't mean it cruelly. It's all they got right now—this shred of normalcy. Insult, insult, insult. It's what they always do, and Merlin leans into the words like a touch, clinging to them, directing his anger at them.

Arthur can't have missed his reaction entirely, but he only exhales heavily; when he begins again, his tone has dropped to something just the barest bit gentler, maybe just because he can, or maybe in recognition of the fact that his insults had the desired effect of easing Merlin down off the highpoint of pure anger he'd been up on. It's hard to tell with Arthur.

"Look," Arthur says, "God knows you seldom respect my wishes, but in this, Merlin, you're going to. And Balinor won't thank you for doing otherwise. Am I clear?"

Clear? Oh, yes. But… "I can't let him die." That came out far more strained than he'd wanted it to. It probably doesn't matter all that much, though: Arthur already knows how cutting what he's asking is.

The hand on his shoulder loosens, pats once, then twice, just to smooth out the wrinkles left in Merlin's shirt, before it drops to Merlin's elbow, as much a command as anything verbal would be. "I'm going to take you to Balinor now," he says, voice eerily calm. His eyes aren't, though—they've gone darker than normal, and so what if his jaw is set, hardening his face for what he knows is necessary? His eyes show his uncertainty. "Do _not _use your magic to try to free him."

Trying to jerk free only ends in a tighter grip on his elbow—one that will probably leave a bruise. "Arthur—"

"Stop it."

"You can't—"

"I'm the prince and your lord, Merlin. I _can_."

_It's for your own good_-it's what Arthur's thinking, and Merlin feels his stomach flip with renewed anger at that non-spoken reality. It's every bit as infuriating as Arthur's continued hold on his elbow, which is more of a way to yank Merlin out the door now, apparently.

"I'm going to find a way—"

All right, so he probably shouldn't be talking to the crown prince that way when another servant is walking by on the other side of the hall—said servant gives him wide eyes and scandalized posture, apparently appalled at his insolence—but at this point, Arthur can whip him if he wants. It can't be worse than what he's letting happen now.

"You are going to be mucking out the stables for weeks on end once this is over," Arthur snarls, shooting a look at the servant's retreating back. He'd have reason to be embarrassed by Merlin's behavior, but if he is, he doesn't show it. "I might even make you sleep there."

"Because killing—"

Apparently that's as far as he gets to push: Arthur's fingers flex, and Merlin's hardly quick enough to get a grip on Arthur's arm before he's being spun around into the wall. Good thing he succeeded, though, as he pitches dangerously, off balance, and almost welcomes it when the wall is pressed up against his back. It at least steadies him, and it didn't even hurt that much. Arthur hadn't pushed him hard enough for that.

That lack of violence doesn't extend to Arthur's tone. "Enough, Merlin! One more word, and I'll give up on taking you to the dungeons altogether."

Nice threat. At some other time, Merlin might have laughed. I won't throw you in the dungeons? Really? That's a threat? At the moment it _is_, though, and so Merlin just bites down on his tongue and scrunches up his brow, throwing Arthur the dirtiest look he can manage.

Arthur doesn't seem too affected. "Better," he says instead and then starts walking again, pulling Merlin along with him.

They receive no comments from the knights when they enter the dungeons. Certainly there are enough curious stares—not obvious, of course, because the knights are better trained than that—to fill the space, but Uther really must have given Arthur permission to be here—and, more surprisingly, to have Merlin here—because no one tries to stop them.

Frankly, though, when Arthur's got that look on his face—the one that promises Very Bad Things—they would, in Merlin's opinion, be asking for pain if they tried to stop him. Most of the time, that look is even a cue for Merlin to stop pushing. It might have been now, if his father weren't sentenced to death, and if Arthur weren't letting it happen, and if there was anything Arthur could do to him that feels worse than this.

There's not.

There just isn't.

"Remember what I said about trying to break out," Arthur tells him gruffly as they stop in front of Balinor's cell… and if he says anything else after that, Merlin doesn't hear it.

His father. Balinor. He looks… tired. Still so unmoved, though, like nothing can really touch him further than it already has. When you've hit the worst, what's left? After what he's been through, a cell is not going to make him looked cowed. It's not going to change how he looks at all.

And Merlin hates that most of all.

One push to his shoulder—not altogether lacking in gentleness—and he finds himself in the cell with Balinor, staring in a way that would probably shame his mother. Though, at this point, his mother might be staring too. And that's funny, right? Yes? Maybe… maybe he's a slight amount worked up by this point. Anyway, he seems hypersensitive to everything, like his nerves are on overdrive, and he just can't stop looking at his _father_—

Behind him there's the sound of a cell shutting and locking, but as relevant as that would be normally—right now, it's just not. Balinor doesn't seem to think so, either, because he's just slowly getting to his feet, hand clambering against the wall for balance, eyes fixed on Merlin.

"You should have left," someone says.

Oh. Him. Merlin. He was the one who said that. Funny, he hadn't felt his mouth move.

"And let Camelot fall?" Balinor asks as he gains his feet. His arms remain lankly at his sides, but the way he watches Merlin is intense to the point where Merlin feels his chest seize up with it. This isn't like a chat around a campfire. That had been hard enough, but then at least he'd thought he'd have some time. They didn't have to say everything perfectly right then. Now, though, there's a time limit. If they don't get this right, they'll never have another chance.

"You were willing to let that happen originally."

"It means something to you," Balinor says, as though that's an answer.

Maybe it is.

"And Gaius?" he asks around the dryness in his throat. "The other good people here?"

"I came for them; I stayed for you."

"Then I wish you hadn't."

Somehow, his feet are carrying him forward, not close enough to touch Balinor, exactly, but not so far off, either. Close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest—not for much longer, no, no, no don't think that—and the sheen in his eyes, all a reflection from the dim dungeon light.

"You would have followed if I left," Balinor states. Not a question.

Merlin nods. "Yes."

"Then I'm glad I stayed."

That doesn't add up. There's no help to be had in toeing the ground with his boot, but he can't figure what Balinor's saying, and it's easier to look at the stone of the floor. "I don't understand."

"I don't need you to."

"But I want—"

"If you followed him, Merlin, you would have been just as much a fugitive. Hunted. And Balinor knows very well what that life is like. He knows it's no life at all."

He'd forgotten Arthur is here. Actually, on some level, he might have even thought he'd left. He's not entirely sure. Hearing his voice, though—he doesn't need to turn around to know he's still there, standing at the door that he last pushed Merlin through.

The thing is, though, Arthur's right. That's obvious in Balinor's gaze, in the way his eyes sweep down and he looks away, his breath leaking out of his lungs slowly enough that it sounds like a whisper in the grass to Merlin's ears.

"So you were going to _die_—" his voice catches over the word, and he scrubs a hand over his chin and mouth, "just so I could keep the life I've got?"

"I _am_."

"You _can't_."

But the reality remains, Balinor very much can. Arthur's going to let it happen, Merlin can't stop it with his magic, and what other recourse does he have beyond those two things? Still, he shoves a foot forward, dipping his shoulder down, trying to catch his father's eye as Balinor turns away, moving back to look at the furthest wall of the dungeon, seemingly unmoved by the fact that his son follows after him.

"You have a good life here. I meant it when I said I that I've seen enough of you to know you'll do great things—"

Right. Of course. Because that's what he's meant to do, even if it tears him apart and destroys his own life in the process. He can't have a father. Not like any normal child, and why, why, why can't he have that? Why is "great things" always the justification, as though that alone can make everything right? It makes Merlin want to yell and maybe cry, but the most he can do is furiously force his way into his father's line of sight, trying the whole time not to think about how Arthur is watching this, probably picking out how tense he's gone—how tight his fists have clenched, just like his jaw, because he's trying very, very hard not to let the stinging in his eyes slip out into actual tears.

"I don't care!" he hisses. "Has anyone ever thought that maybe I don't want to do great things? Would normal, just for once, be too much to ask?"

Balinor doesn't look away, though in some ways it might be kinder if he did: Merlin can hardly stand the way his gaze seems to crack apart, fractured by clear pain. "We don't get to choose our destiny."

Something just snaps at that, and he throws his hand out to the side, fast, like it means something even if it does _nothing_. "That's cruel. To not have a choice."

"Then it's cruel," Balinor states tonelessly. Then, louder, possibly even heated and bitter for the first time since Merlin's been brought down here, he adds, "You think I haven't thought the same?"

There's nothing he can say to that.

Finally, however, Balinor reaches out. His hand jerks at first, hovering over Merlin's shoulder, not quite sure, but Merlin swallows and somehow that becomes reassurance, because the hand settles a moment later. "The gift of a dragon lord," he says, his voice dropping to no more than a whisper, "is passed from father to son upon the father's death."

No. No more gifts. No more magic. No more responsibility. Why not just a life like any boy would have wanted? A father. No great destiny.

He chokes on a sob. He's not crying. He's not. But that's because he's choking instead. "I don't know how—"

"You have to reach for the language the two of you share. It's not something that can be taught. It's only something that _is_. You'll know it. You'll make me proud."

And then he's stepping back around Merlin, walking with remarkably even steps, ignoring how his son spins after him—he's slated for execution, and _how can he be this calm?_—to the door where Arthur is still standing.

Both of Arthur's hands are up, resting on the door about mid-chest level. Although, resting might not be the correct word. That implies a lack of tension, and even through Merlin can't stop his breath from jerking and his mind from spinning, he can see just how tense Arthur is. There's nothing relaxed about him, not from the line of his jaw to the way he stands at attention, letting the door take none of his weight.

"You should take him away from here," Balinor says simply, giving Arthur a small nod. "I can give him nothing else."

That sends Merlin scrambling for the door: he throws himself between Arthur and his father, back to Arthur and the door. "I'm not leaving!" He hasn't had enough time. He never will, but if his father does die in the impending future, why can't he have _this_ time, at least?

The sound of the door is Arthur's answer, and Merlin whips around, trying to duck away from Arthur, but he's caught by firm hands on his shoulders. It's not that Arthur is purposely not letting him turn—or at least he doesn't think that's the purpose—but the side effect is that he's kept facing his father.

And that's all he needs to take a good look and see that Balinor doesn't want him to leave either—not really.

"Arthur, no, you can't—I'm staying—you've got to understand—" Broken words, but he doesn't look away from Balinor. Arthur's hands are rough.

"I do," is all Arthur says, but there's an arm around Merlin's chest now, dragging him back while his father just stands there and watches, eyes closing slowly. He doesn't want to watch. He doesn't want Merlin to leave, but he's letting him, and Merlin doesn't understand it, not at _all_— "I swear, Merlin, I do understand. But it doesn't change anything."

He grabs at the bars, but Arthur's stronger than him by far, and when he hits that blocked area of his mind—his magic—he chokes out a cry of incoherent rage, frustration laced through it, but Arthur still drags him backwards, out of the cell. He somehow manages to even hold Merlin while he locks the cell door.

And still Balinor doesn't move. He just stands there, shoulders squared, arms at his side, and eyes closed.

"Arthur—"

He cries out again—even kicks back at Arthur, thinks he might have even caught him in the shin, because Arthur grunts. It doesn't matter, though: Arthur grips a little harder, and pulls him away from the cell, holding his twisting and struggling down to a minimum, muttering something in Merlin's ear, but Merlin can't tell what, and he certainly doesn't care.

His last sight of his father is the same as it's been for the last minute: just a man in a cell, standing, saying nothing as his son is dragged away from him-enduring with a strength that Merlin hates and admires and wants to have. It could be something Balinor teaches him—that strength. Years and years without anything, and it would be at least _something _he could get from his father.

But if his father is dead, how will he ever get the chance to learn?


	7. Chapter 7

ruby890: Thanks! I can't promise it will get happier right away, though.

sesshouluver: It's probably not a good thing that Arthur is right… at this point, I think even Arthur would like to be wrong on this one.

noreallyidontcare: Thank you! Writing the emotions of the characters is really my absolute favorite part, so I'm glad you're enjoying it. :)

CM: Sorry that I've been a bit slow on undates. I've gotten a job that requires me to live with my grandparents, and they don't have internet. So, the two days a week that I'm home are hopefully going to be for updates.

Laughy-Taffy the Grape: I agree—it was kinder, and that's sort of what I wanted to play with. The way Balinor died in the show seemed so cruel, but I was always kind of interested in what might have happened—and how it could be worse—if he lived.

yarra: I promise, I'll write a happy story at some point!

Phoenix halfbreed: I'm half sorry to make you cry and half really pleased that I was able to. Thanks for reading!

hiddenworldwalker: Aww, thank you!

Literaria: They all need hugs. For sure.

* * *

><p>Sorry that this chapter is a bit short. I realized that the way the next few go together, I couldn't have added another section to this without messing some stuff up.<p>

* * *

><p>"You were willing to risk death to just i<em>learni _about your mother. Why won't you let me do the same to save my father?"

The pressure in Arthur's head tips over into a steady staccato pounding. Throb, throb, throb, and no amount of rubbing his hand against his eyes alleviates the ache. Any second now, his skull will probably split open, and God help him, that might actually be a relief.

Merlin hasn't looked at him since they've gotten back to Arthur's chambers. He'd stopped yelling about halfway up the stairs, but he hadn't relaxed, and though Arthur had hoped he might once they were in private, he's found that he was sorely wrong. If anything, Merlin's tensed more, shoulders hunched in on themselves as he haunts Arthur's usual place at the window.

It's not like Merlin to stare off at nothing—he and Arthur are different that way—but that's what he has to be doing, because there's nothing there for him to stare at. Arthur would know. He's looked over every stone, every wall, every person walking by, just about anytime something weighs heavily on his mind. It's his vantage point for thought, and while he's more than willing to let Merlin borrow it given the circumstances, he can't imagine that Merlin will find it helpful.

"It'll hurt, won't it?" Merlin says quietly, not turning around.

Pausing from where he'd been picking at the food on his plate—some servant had brought it while he was in the dungeons with Merlin, apparently—Arthur places his hand down flat on the table and focuses his entire attention on his servant. "What?"

"The burning."

Bloody hell. i_That/i _is what Merlin is looking at.

Just like that, he can't get out of his seat fast enough. Still, Merlin seems almost startled when Arthur yanks him back away from the window, and, yes, just like he'd thought, there it is, the beginnings of construction right in the center of the square.

A pyre.

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Dark smudges stand under Merlin's eyes, darkening the color of his irises to a clouded, dull blue, but his gaze is steady, and, if anything, he's studying Arthur as much as Arthur is studying him.

"Sit down. Eat something," Arthur says finally, pulling Merlin toward the table. His hands are steady… in the same forced way they are after a fight that's just a little too personal.

Merlin sits, but he looks at the food with an arched eyebrow and disbelief. "That's your food."

"Considering the circumstances, I don't mind. It's not like you ever worried about taking my food before."

True enough, and that at least earns him a smile, but it's a hollow victory: the expression is lifeless and thin, entirely too forced on Merlin's lips. "You didn't answer my question."

No, no he didn't, and he doesn't want to, because what exactly is he supposed to do? Lie to Merlin? Merlin already knows the answer anyway. Any sane man would.

"Merlin—" He stops, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Honestly, Merlin, just… don't ask that."

_iWhy? Because you don't want to answer?/i_

Arthur could really do without the self-doubt at the moment. He's faced difficult situations before. He'll have to do it again. This—he's just going to have to face this too, and he's not doing anyone any good by letting weakness show.

If Merlin understands, that could explain why he looks away, letting the question go. There's always another possible reason, though. Always more possibilities, and Arthur is, for the moment, tired of trying to trace them out.

Rest is a luxury it doesn't seem he'll get, however: if the situation couldn't get worse, it still would, somehow—and it does. That comes in the swinging of hinges and displaced air moved by a door opening, and when Arthur turns, he already knows what he'll find, but, just this once, couldn't fate misplace it?

No. Uther stands in the doorway, cloak fluttering at his back with his sudden cessation of motion: his eyes are already fixed on Merlin, assessing. They don't even narrow: he just stares, calm and open, like Merlin isn't worth the extra movement.

And Merlin stares back.

Immediately, Arthur takes the only option he can see: he moves to meet his father, giving Merlin a quick, pointed look—i_don't even consider moving/i, _and if Merlin disregards that look, Arthur won't be responsible for his actions—before nodding to the door. Uther gives him a raised eyebrow, but, thankfully, he moves with Arthur.

What he wouldn't give to see a hint of compassion in his father for any part of this. Oh, no, though, it's clear: none exists. Uther's back remains straight as they leave the room, and there's no backward glance at Merlin. Nothing at all but dignified movements and an icy strong exterior that, as a child, Arthur hadn't understood. He'd wanted his father, not a king, almost as much as he wants leniency now. Justice. Why can the years of his father's twisted grief just peel away?

Uther turns on his heel to face Arthur once they door is closed. Arms crossing, he regards his son with a tight-lipped expectancy. He doesn't look so very old like that, Arthur finds himself thinking, even if his father's hair is graying and his face is lining with age. But old—that would seem less than what Uther is, less than the hard gaze and the seeming command of any situation he walks into. Aging, perhaps, but not old.

"Honestly, Arthur, you feel the need to leave your own room on account of your servant?" he asks with a hint of distaste.

He feels his own jaw clench. "When I'm discussing the impending execution of the person who's ensorcelled him? Yes, I do. I'd rather he not do anything rash. At this point, he still blames you, and he probably will until the sorcerer dies and the enchantment is lifted." The words taste sour in his mouth… but so much depends on this lie. Merlin's ilife/i depends on it.

Relief trickles through him when Uther gives him a curt nod. "I suppose your concern is not misplaced. It would be unfortunate to have to harm the boy for an assault precipitated entirely by forces beyond his control."

Not so beyond Merlin's control as Uther might like to think, Arthur thinks wearily. From what he's seen, Merlin has a fairly competent grasp on his magic.

Better not to dwell on a subject that treacherous, though—easier to nod, as though he agrees, and rest his hands lightly at his belt as he makes to press the conversation into something else: "I do assume you wanted to discuss the execution?"

Uther nods in return. "Yes. I intend to have it done tonight."

"Tonight?"

Another nod. "Best to remove him before sympathy can arise in the people. They don't understand the threat of magic," he states firmly. "All they see is a man who drove off a dragon. They don't comprehend that he could kill them just as easily as the creature he banished."

Maybe that's true… but the fact remains, Balinor i_didn't/i _harm them_. _He chose to i_save/i _them.

Not that Arthur can say as much. Instead, he just tucks his hands behind his back, fingers wrapping around opposite wrists as he stands stiffly, trying for all the world to look as though he agrees with that decision.

"I see your point," he says evenly (thank God it came out i_evenly/i_). "Will the pyre be ready?"

"Yes."

It will, Arthur is sure, because if it isn't, Uther will find a way to make certain it is. It's rather like how he finds a way to believe the worst of every bit of magic he encounters. Any other circumstances, and he'd question—want to know why Merlin is the only one enchanted, why Balinor came back at all.

Not this, though. With this, he just sees i_magic/i_, and there's only one reaction in him for that.

His stomach has been rolling for some time now, but the thought of that—reality aside, he could swear that thought has frozen whatever's in there, weighing it heavier to twice as much until he might as well have eaten stones. His father. Blind. Unjust. It doesn't—it was never the man i_he/i _saw. Not his father. Perhaps, if he didn't know the reason for that, he could even hate his father. That reason, though—it's not something either of them can escape. Arthur can see it even now in the way the color of his father's eyes has dulled, and more so in the hard, etched lines of his face. Arthur's mother is in every wrinkle, every bit of age. Her death was enough to warp him—to twist a good man—because he has to still be a good man on most levels, despite everything—blind. Arthur i_knows/i _he is a good man. In this, though—in the thing that killed his wife—he is not himself.

And there's always the possibility that the poison of bitterness toward that area of the world has leaked over into other parts of him as well.

It's not something Arthur would like to consider—not when he's fairly certain there's no cure.

"I understand," he says finally, inclining his head respectfully. "Though, I don't plan on attending myself."

Uther straightens up, looking at his son with a frown. "What?"

"I simply worry for what will happen in regards to Merlin. Who knows what this spell could cause him to do. Considering that he's Balinor's last hold of power, I find it entirely possible that he could attempt to cause damage with Merlin."

"You believe he has transferred powers temporarily to your manservant?"

Backtrack—and quickly, or it will be Merlin burning right alongside his father. "No. I've seen no evidence of that. However, I see no reason not to be wary. Balinor has proven himself to be powerful."

"You could assign a guard to watch your servant."

"He's my responsibility. I'd prefer to do it myself." That might be pushing a bit hard—Uther's lips tense, and he leans his head back to look down his nose at Arthur. "Of course, if you need me at the execution, I will certainly attend, but it would be my preference to monitor him myself."

He's not surprised when his seeming willingness to do his father's bidding is what earns him permission. Even so, he can't deny the way his muscles seem to melt in relief at those words. Leaving Merlin alone for this, locked in Arthur's chambers—it would be cruel… because there's no doubt that Merlin would watch. And leaving him with another knight? Even if that would ensure Merlin wouldn't be able to watch, how would Arthur explain away the grief after it was over? The spell should break when Balinor dies—or so Uther believes, because anything else would have gotten Merlin killed—and a Merlin who doesn't immediately revert to normal—and Arthur can't imagine or expect that he will—would be cause for question.

No. It has to be him. Anything else will get Merlin killed.

"Thank you," he says when his father finally nods.

For what. What is he thanking him for? For executing an innocent man? Uther brought all of this about, and Arthur doesn't want to see the blood on his father's hands, but—

No. It is not his place. His father is king. Enough. Just… enough. He can't change this. Shouldn't even think about it. This is his i_father/i_.

"You're welcome, Arthur. With any luck, we'll have this all cleared up soon."

From the back, Arthur could swear his father could be one of the knights. Young, still well-built, his steps even and eating up the ground while Arthur stands where Uther has left him, watching as his father strides off down the corridor, cloak trailing behind him, the bright Pendragon red striking out the dullness of the walls and floors. He used to always do that for Arthur: strike out the dullness.

What. Happened. What happened?

Slowly, Arthur leans into the wall, trying not to think, and failing, i_so utterly/i _failing. A memory is a thought, right? It's an imprint in him, and it should be an answer, but he can't seem to find what he's looking for. He'd been a little boy once, hadn't he? Wanting his father's attention—his approval. Certainly Uther had never been one to coddle, and he'd never had much time for idle play with his son, but Arthur can remember moments: times when his father personally instructed him with weaponry, times when he'd sat with Arthur at the table, talking him through some duty to the kingdom—he even recalls riding with his father, seated in front of him in the saddle. He'd always felt so tiny when they'd ridden together. Uther had been larger than any danger. He had, Arthur thinks, gritting his teeth and digging his nails against stone, been a little boy's ideal of what a man—and king—should be.

When had that stopped? When had Uther become fallible?

The chill of the wall seeps into his shoulder, but Arthur only leans into it harder, now staring blankly at the empty corridor: his father has left the corridor, and even the sound of his footfalls are dying away now. Arthur could yell—call him back, but for what purpose? He loves his father—always will—but a pyre and a judgment, an innocent man condemned—he can't find the words in a mouth that's suddenly gone very dry. His father is fallible, and maybe that was obvious in a thousand situations before now—Arthur has certainly disobeyed him before—but he'd always believed in him. Now—what if he doesn't now? What does that even mean?

Nothing. For now it will mean nothing, he thinks, pushing himself up from the wall and back towards his room. He is not the first son to realize that his father is not the man he'd always imagined him to be, and why should that eat at him more than it does most young men? It's true that most sons don't find that knowledge in the walls of a royal court… but, then, he supposes that's better than those who find their answers in pit of a cave and impending death. Merlin's ideal of his father has been shattered as clearly as Arthur's. Not in the same way and maybe not with the same consequences, but, still…

Turning away from the wall, Arthur bites his lip and goes back to his room.

He'll try to fix what he can see: it's easier than easing the ache in his chest.


	8. Chapter 8

ruby890: Agreed. The man needs some therapy.

Emachinescat: Thanks! Sorry the updates have been so slow—blame work.

Rilain: Thanks so much for taking the time to read all the way through this! I'm also pleased that you're enjoying Merlin's magic not being the only thing that's important—I really enjoy exploring aspects of his character that concern more than just his magic. I think he'd be complicated and interesting even if he weren't magical.

bookaddict27: This start looking up a little from here on out. Of course, this part is pretty sad, so there's really nowhere to go but up…

Alaia Skyhawk: Glad you enjoyed it! Arthur can be a bit tricky to work out at times.

yarra: Witty is my favorite. Emo-vampire angst? Not so much… (Clearly, I'm not a Twilight fan)

sesshouluver: He certainly will. Now if Uther would just get out of the way…

finn1013: Agreed. That would have been a much better option. Not sure why he didn't just do that in the show…

Laughy-Taffy the Grape: Yeah, Arthur has his work cut out for him in that respect.

Asdfjkl: Interesting thought—I'd never really considered it that way before, but now that you state it like that, I think that's a really neat perspective. I'm going to have to think on that.

* * *

><p>They haven't spoken for hours. Just he and Arthur, sitting at the table across from each other as the room slowly darkens. They should light the candles… but they don't. Merlin can't be sure if Arthur refrains from asking for the same reasons Merlin hasn't done it yet: the sounds of wood and work outside the window in the courtyard are stopping him from having any desire to see a flame, and it's not so unbelievable that Arthur feels the same. Either way, the candles remain unlit.<p>

It's only when the sounds from the courtyard stop that either of them really seems to register that they're sitting in near-darkness.

_Near_ darkness, that is. The courtyard is well lit.

Nothing like an execution to bring people out, Merlin finds himself thinking bitterly as he slowly scrapes the edge of his nail across the tabletop, feeling the bits of dirt that have settled there—the table hasn't been cleaned since they left to find Balinor—lodge up against his skin. He can hear their voices. No doubt, if he goes to look, they'll have gathered around the pyre.

Not that Arthur will let him look, though he hasn't said that outright. He wouldn't, not if he doesn't need to.

Doesn't make it any less obvious.

"Don't you have to go?" Merlin finds himself saying, and then jumping back, surprised. Startled by his own voice: Arthur would laugh at him and the way he jerks when the words tumble out of his mouth, were the situation not what it is. He can't help it, though—they seem far to loud in the silence of the room.

Arthur doesn't look up. "No."

Merlin can only imagine how he managed _that_. "Don't trust me?"

"Believe it or not, Merlin," he answers, half sighing as he rests his elbow on the table, using the leverage to prop his forehead in his palm, "I trust you with my life. But, no, not with this. I wouldn't even trust _myself_ with this."

Logical enough. Stupid enough, too. Merlin clenches his fingers a little harder into the wood, feeling a splinter break off and shove up under the nail. There might even be blood, though that's really the least of his concerns, given that it feels like that particular substance has turned to ice anyway.

"You're letting an innocent man die, Arthur." If he can just goad Arthur into _doing_ something…

Arthur fingers clench, just once, twined in the strands of his bangs, before he releases the hold and lets them rest against the mussed hair. "Do you really want to blame me for this?"

"Y—" Mouth open, words halfway out, and he can't even find comfort in _this_. Cruelty won't help him here—hurting Arthur will do nothing except exactly that: hurt Arthur. He's furious and desperate—both of those partly at Arthur—but Arthur is not to blame. Merlin can't lay this at his feet. Not when misplaced blame and grief are what created this—the hatred of magic that drove this situation—to begin with.

"No." He says it firmly. Like a decision.

Arthur just nods.

"Let me save him."

He's only met with silence. Arthur's face doesn't shift, and when nearly a minute later he finally pushes himself back from the table, mindless of the scrape the chair makes on the floor, he still doesn't look at Merlin.

It's when he slips over to the window, bracing his palms on either side of the casement, that Merlin sees the change that was probably there all along. Anyway, words lie, and seeing Arthur hang his head between his arms, staring down at the courtyard is a like promise in his body—something he can't deny. Words will lie, but the whole of Arthur himself will not.

I'm sorry, Arthur says, but doesn't say. And I won't change my mind.

The finality is stifling. Breathe. Merlin breathes.

Or he thinks he does.

Somewhere outside the window, there's a murmur in the crowd. Merlin knows it—has heard it before. They're probably bringing his father out. Arthur doesn't tell him, though, but just keeps staring out the glass, face pressing closer to the pane with every small breath until his nose nearly touches it, and his arms are no longer outstretched, but rather bent at the elbow, hands still flat on the wall.

Merlin sits back in his chair and swallows. The noise in the courtyard grows. Arthur doesn't falter.

Last chance.

Please.

But there is nothing.

That ends it, then. There's no more time to wait, and no more hope that Merlin can place in Arthur to save this situation. It's not a betrayal by Arthur, not in the sense it should be—it's only Merlin's admittance from himself _about_ Arthur: Arthur, while admirable, will fail him like everyone else. He is Merlin's prince and future king, but he is a man, and even amidst the great things he has done and will do, there will always inevitably come a time when it won't be enough.

There will come a time when what both of them do _together_ won't even be enough.

_I'm happy to be your servant until the day I die._

Silently—more so than Arthur—Merlin rises from his chair. He's careful not to make it catch on the floor, and instead shimmies between the edge of the chair arm and the table until he's free. If Arthur hears him, he doesn't acknowledge it, and Merlin's left standing, staring at his back, trying to understand how his loyalty to Arthur can possibly be truer now than it was ten minutes ago.

_Until the day I die. Until we both fail. Until this world shakes all the way down. _

Serving a perfect king would mean nothing. Perfect means no chance of failure. Give him the good man—one who fights his failures. If Arthur were perfect, he wouldn't be real, and there is nothing admirable in that. Nothing that draws loyalty.

Goodness, though, Arthur's _flawed_. He's failed. He's failing now. And, yet, even failing, he draws Merlin's loyalty, because the failure eats at Arthur as much as anyone else.

One step forward. Then another. Arthur doesn't hear, or doesn't turn if he does.

He has justice where Uther doesn't. Perspective. His flaws make him question—to try to be better. People will follow a fallible man who stands for something good…

And who always wants to stand for something _better_, even if things are crumbling around him.

"You know I have to try, don't you?" Merlin says quietly to Arthur's back. He thinks he sees the muscles twitch slightly, but he can't be sure—it could just as easily be a trick of the torchlight in the courtyard.

Against the stone, Arthur's fingers clench. "Yes."

"I know I can't win."

"It doesn't matter," Arthur says slowly, drawing the words out. "It's cruel to expect you to sit calmly while your father is executed."

"Is that permission?"

"You don't want my permission."

True enough. Permission would cheapen this. With permission, it wouldn't be a fight—just Arthur indulging him, and Arthur has _never_ done that before. Merlin doesn't need that kind of insult… and Arthur isn't giving it, because understanding is _not_ permission, nor is it preference. Arthur would, undoubtedly, still prefer he doesn't do this, even if he understands.

"I'm going to stop you, you know," Arthur adds tonelessly.

"Probably."

"And if I were you, I'd still fight me anyway."

Not permission—just understanding. That's at least something Merlin can appreciate. Appreciation won't solve this, though, and he means what he told Arthur: he'll fight this. He'll fight to get to his father, even if it means his life, his banishment, his complete and utter ruin, because this is his _father_, someone he cares for, and he'd do the same for Arthur if the situation called for it, and there's no way Arthur doesn't _know_ that. He'd claw his way through Hell for Arthur, and it's not exactly a secret, though he hasn't screamed it with words the same way he's done for his father. Doesn't make it any less true, though. And that? It's what makes this a fight. The tension in Arthur's body screams that he hasn't missed that—that he _knows_. Merlin will go through _him_ right now, if he has to, if he _can_, and even if the outcome is practically foregone—he can't take Arthur in a fight without his magic—he isn't doing this just because not trying would be cowardly.

He _means_ this. He's fighting to _win_, even if he already knows he'll lose.

Arthur shifts his weight to his right foot. He's waiting. Ready.

"Sorry," Merlin whispers.

Then he's moving.

The chair goes flying, caught by his haphazard turn, and it's really not a coincidence that it falls in Arthur's path as he jerks away from the window at the first sign of Merlin's movement. Though, if armed soldiers can't stop Arthur, a chair doesn't have much of a chance: Merlin's hardly surprised when Arthur's past the chair and grabbing at him, hands ripping at his clothes while Merlin's fingers close around the handle to the door.

Rough hands. Hard, not caring if they bruise. Just trying to pull him back… He's losing already. Damn it, though, this one he _can't_ lose, and there's something to be said for that: even when Arthur grabs his wrist, trying to twist Merlin's arm back, looking to force him away, peal him from the door, Merlin doesn't go with him. He pushes into it. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, but he _can't_ lose—

* * *

><p>-can't lose this fight, because Arthur is well aware that if he does, everything will go straight to hell. More than it already has. He's just snapped something in Merlin's arm, so, really, how much further south can this go? Oh, yes, it could end up with Merlin burning next to his father. That's right. Silly of him to forget, and, damn Merlin, if he would just <em>stop<em>—

The cry Merlin makes when his bone snaps rakes over Arthur's eardrums, but somehow, he's more annoyed with the fact that he's lost his hold on Merlin. Not literally: he's still got a grip on his arm, but the arm is already broken—he won't get anywhere if he just keeps twisting it.

That's probably what Merlin was going for.

Pity that it's not a complete failure: Arthur hardly gets a good look at the injury, because Merlin swings hard into him, twisting, and for just a moment, he gets a glimpse of Merlin's face, spoiled-milk white—because breaking bones will do that—as light from outside slashes against it, slicing over his forehead and jumping off onto the wall when Merlin pushes forward.

Arthur takes the shove and stumbles backward, because he hadn't expected it, and more so because he doesn't want to hurt Merlin. How laughable. His servant's arm is already hanging uselessly at his side, and how is Merlin not screaming in pain?

_I didn't mean it, Merlin. I didn't._

He does, though. Not the pain, but he does mean to stop him: his fingers are already reaching again, like they're attached to a pair of hands he's never seen before, grabbing Merlin's jacket and pushing _hard._

The crack of wood on flesh—the door, then—but Merlin, already gasping for breath and positively ghostly-looking now—brings a knee up, not quite managing to catch Arthur with it, but by sheer dumb luck accomplishing something anyway when that puts him off balance: he tips sideways, yanking himself out of Arthur's hold as he smashes to the ground.

He's not even down before Arthur's lunging after him. Pin him down and _stop_ this mess, because that arm needs attention, _Merlin_ needs attention, and maybe he'll just pass out from the pain. Miss the whole execution.

No, though. Flailing limbs and the thunk of wood when Merlin kicks the door as he rolls—someone yelps, and it's not him, so it must be Merlin—looking like he's grinding his body right over his shoulder as he turns over.

And then a fist to Arthur's face.

Damn it, he _really_ should have seen that one coming.

He would have if this weren't personal (small comfort, really). _Hit him back._ It's what's best for him. _Drive a fist into his face, and God willing, knock him out for this—_

* * *

><p>-because there's no doubt in Merlin's mind that Arthur wants him unconscious, doesn't want him to see this. They agree on one thing, then: Merlin doesn't want to see it either. He wants to <em>stop<em> it.

It's agony, though—his arm. What did Arthur do to it? And why is he still moving, dragging himself up off the floor while he screams against the pain, biting his tongue until he tastes blood? _Run, run, run—the window, get to the window—_

He does. And he doesn't know what to do once he gets there. Grab at the glass with the hand on his good arm, spit out some blood, but _what had he meant to do once he got to the window?_ He hadn't thought—hadn't had a plan. He can't even see past the pain of jostled, broken bones. He's going to vomit. Any minute.

Out the window, though—his father. If he could just get out the window. Was that what he wanted to do? Hard to tell. Even harder when Arthur's got an arm around his chest, shouting noise in his ear as Merlin shoves and shoves and shoves against the block in his mind, screaming in frustration—and probably pain—when it just won't give.

_Please. Please._

"LetmegoLetmegoLetmego—"

"Merlin, let go, you're hurting—_Merlin!_"

His father is tied to the pyre. Black hair, unkempt, broad shoulders that even now won't slouch in defeat. Balinor. His father. On the pyre. And damn them all to hell, it's lit. Someone lit it, just a moment ago. He's crying, he thinks, screaming for something—heads are turning towards Arthur's window, and just as his fingertips slip off the sill, he sees his father's head turn to him, looking—

* * *

><p>"NO!" Merlin screams as Arthur finally—<em>finally<em>—drags him off the window. Not even that's a full success, though, because Merlin kicks out when Arthur gets an arm around his waist, lifting him, and his foot catches the window, shattering the glass.

There are screams in the courtyard, cries of rage and pure grief from Merlin, and Arthur can't do anything. He tried. He did. God help him, he _did_. But there's nothing more he can do beyond sinking to the floor with Merlin, clutching him. Merlin's still twisting of course, and with Arthur's arms around him, he can feel the broken bones in Merlin's arm grinding against his own bones—sets his teeth on edge, really, because no matter how many wounds he's seen, it's still never natural.

"Breathe, Merlin, c'mon, breathe—"

Is he? Past the cries and the harsh pants? Is he taking any air in?

Is either of them?

"Fath—"

But Arthur claps a hand over his mouth before Merlin gets the word out. Merlin bites him, of course, and that—it's enough. This isn't getting either of them anywhere, and teeth grinding down into the flesh of his palm hurt. Worth it, though, because if that word had gotten out for the courtyard to hear…

_Father…_

Flames are crackling down below, growing as they catch more wood, gobbling up the kindling until they get to the bigger meal, licking at it before catching on and engulfing it. The patterns of the fire-tongues dance on the walls, over him and Merlin, bathing them in shifting, orange-tinged light. Too much. Arthur's had enough, let Merlin see too much. It would have been kinder to knock him out in the beginning—

Better correct that now.

He doesn't need to. Merlin slumps, going boneless—so ironic, given the state of his arm—against Arthur's chest just as Arthur shifts his hand off Merlin's mouth to his neck instead, cutting off air.

Seldom has he been so relieved.

The print is still there, though. Red blood on Merlin's neck where Arthur's palm—bitten open by Merlin—touched, and Arthur just breathes, looking down at his servant, at the way shadows and flames whip across his face, trying not to see the crimson.

One second. Two. Three. His chest rises and falls slowly, Merlin moving with it. He could let go now, but the idea of making a movement doesn't seem possible. Merlin's screams are still echoing in his ears, and now a cry in the courtyard joins them. Balinor. Burning.

_I'm so sorry, Merlin._

He won't look away, though he can't even see the pyre to begin with. There's just that window, empty of glass now, and the patterns of fire all over him and his room. He won't look away from that, though—it's cowardly. Merlin will never be able to look away from this: his mind will undoubtedly rake this over his nerves on a daily basis.

Arthur watches the flames leap.

He can't do anything about any of this, but when he's king, this won't happen. There will be justice. As best as he can make it, things will be fair. Men like Balinor won't burn, and men like Merlin won't have to sit back and watch.

He's not king now, though. Uther is. And he can't begin to comprehend how Uther can justify this. This can't have been what Arthur's mother wanted—he won't believe that of his mother. She is—was—good and perfect, still pristine where his father isn't. Idealistic and naïve or not, he has to believe it. Otherwise, what chance does he have? He has to be like his mother. Good and kind like his mother, who wouldn't have wanted Uther to ruin lives like this out of sheer grief.

"I'll be different," he whispers, voice surprisingly steady. "More like _her_."


	9. Chapter 9

I'm going to answer reviews at a later date this time, mainly because if I do it right now, I won't have enough time to actually post this chapter. Sorry about that, but I figured you'd rather have a new chapter without old reviews answered than no new chapter at all.

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><p>Merlin wakes to the smell of ashes and… something else that's sweeter smelling, but far to sickly too be pleasant. At first, he doesn't recognize it. He's never actually been in Camelot when someone was burnt at the stake. Beheadings, yes, but this is very different. That smell, though—it winds into his nose until he sniffs in protest, turning his head to the side on the pillow.<p>

The pillow smells like him, and that's better—more familiar. Comforting. It's slightly unwashed, but with sort of a warm scent, and he cuddles into it further, sighing aloud at the soft give under his face.

"Merlin."

Gaius. That… sounds like Gauis. Has he overslept? He dearly hopes not—Arthur's going to want his breakfast and his bath, and it doesn't matter if he doesn't wake until Merlin gets there—he's always still put out about Merlin being tardy, even if he wasn't awake to need anything.

Insufferable prat. Royal prat. No matter what he is, he's_ still _a prat.

"Mmm, yeah, Gauis, I'm up," he mutters, reaching out to swat aside the blankets.

And for the love of—he has—that hurts— He bites off the thought, grinding his teeth and panting for the air pain pushed out of his lungs.

Well, he's certainly awake now.

Good God, when did his arm decide it was going to protest all forms of motion? Did it suddenly decide that he needs a mental run-through of every curse he knows? Because he's sure not bothering to try to stop them from streaming out of his mouth. He can't really do much beyond just curling over into himself, grunting against the stabs of agony thrusting up and down his arm. "What _happened_-?" he manages to gasp.

And then promptly realizes his doesn't need to ask.

"Where's Balinor?"

Gaius doesn't answer, but his face appears more lined—he seems older. How much did he see… of what happened? It's not as though Merlin doesn't know. But—couldn't he be wrong?

Please?

Shuffling upwards with his arm clutched tightly to his chest, he whispers, "Gaius?" He's too close to pleading. It's too much-his voice breaks over the word, but he can't imagine not asking.

Carefully, Gaius, who is seated in a chair next to his bed, raises his hand to Merlin's forehead. He could be checking for fever; he might only be trying to soothe. "You need to lie down, Merlin," he says, cool palm resting on Merlin's head.

"I—" He shakes his head, faster and faster until he feels a bit dizzy. "Gaius, please, no—"

"You need to keep that arm still. I'd only just set it before you woke."

Not much time can have passed, then. Balinor—the pyre is probably still there. Maybe Merlin could… with the ashes… if he exchanged his own life? A life for a life in the old religion. He did it with Nimueh. It saved Arthur. Why not Balinor? Surely it can't be so impossible…

Something of his thoughts must reflect in his eyes, because Gaius frowns and leans forward to physically push him down. Merlin would have expected him to withdraw his hand once he had him back in bed, but Gaius fingers remain on his shoulder.

"You don't—aren't you going to brace it?" Merlin asks tonelessly, looking down at his arm. The pyre—if he could just get to the pyre, then maybe—

Those fingers on his shoulder clench a bit, and Gaius's frown deepens. Has he ever looked this old? If he has, Merlin hasn't noticed. Maybe he ought to look more closely. Old means death, and he… can't lose Gaius too.

Not that he's lost his father. He—that can't be true yet. There's got to be a way…

"I believe we'll wait for Arthur to make an appearance."

"You don't need Arthur for that."

This is his room. He knows every inch of it, from the bed—a lump in the left corner—to the hole in his blanket from where he pushed through it with his toe, to the slight burn in the corner where he might have accidentally lost a bit of control while trying a new spell. No, this room is infused with _him_—Merlin—and it's not _Arthur's _place, especially not when he's—not entirely responsible, exactly—too closely tied in Merlin's mind to the situation where he got the injury in the first place. Having Arthur come into his place that is only Merlin's and passing judgment on the treatment of an injury he inflicted… No. Just no.

"Arthur doesn't need to be here," he reiterates, more firmly this time. He can even feel the stubborn jut of his chin—that look his mother used to tease him about when he was smaller and trying to make a point.

Again, Gaius doesn't answer, though this time he does look away, hair falling forward into his face as he sighs heavily. It's not the arm he's waiting because of, Merlin realizes suddenly: it's because Gaius fears he'll try to get out of bed if he isn't left with at least a hand to deter him.

The thing is, he's right.

He's thinking about doing it now anyway: he could get around Gaius, far more quickly than he could Arthur. Gaius couldn't stop him—

Whatever hold Arthur has over his magic, it doesn't link their thoughts, but when the door pushes open and Arthur trudges inside, Merlin would almost like that to be the explanation. At least that would absolve fate from being this unbelievably vicious—what are the chances that Arthur would come just as he's about to break for it?

If Arthur realizes the impeccability of his timing, he doesn't show it. Truthfully, he doesn't show much: he just stands there, filling up the doorframe, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His eyes, though—they're fixed on Merlin, looking for something that Merlin can't begin to define and certainly can't understand, at least not any more than he can comprehend how Arthur still seems so composed when he can't really be like that on the inside. Can he? Not right now, surely.

"Arthur—" he tries to say, struggling up against Gaius's hand again.

Predictably, Arthur will have none of it—not that, in Merlin's opinion, he ever really does. "For God's sake, Merlin, lie down," he mutters, scowling and scrubbing a hand over his face. He's tired—exhausted, even. That much is blatantly obvious in the darkening circles under his eyes and the way his mouth has worn thin, muscles fighting extra hard to keep his expression carefully checked.

When Gaius rises, Arthur moves forward and sinks down into the vacated chair.

"Arthur—"

"I told you to lie down." A quick shove sends Merlin to his back. Immediately, he winces at the jostle to his arm.

The pain must catch Arthur's eye. "Sorry," Arthur mutters, eyes flickering close for half a second as he takes a deep breath.

"Balinor—"

"Don't ask me that, Merlin. Just—don't ask what you already know."

At his side, Gaius is binding up his arm, immobilizing it as best he can now that he's apparently content that there's someone to insure Merlin doesn't get out of bed while he does it. He's saying something to Arthur about it being a clean break, and Arthur is nodding, like he knew it would be—which he probably did, given that he's trained to break arms and probably knows the effects of what he does—but neither of them are really talking _to_ each other so much as _at_ each other. What they're saying—it's just a way to fill the silence.

The words drift back and forth over Merlin.

"—will need to be off-duty for a time—"

"—assumed as much—"

"—heal cleanly—"

"—given him something for the pain?—"

They're talking about his arm. They are talking about i_him/i _when his father is dead, burned alive in the courtyard like a criminal when he should have been lauded as the man who saved Camelot. That can't be right. Merlin found him and lost him, he was everything and nothing like he thought, and he can't understand. Nothing around him makes sense.

Swallowing down the rolling of his stomach, he takes a deep breath.

"Arthur."

He's not certain what it is about his voice that is different from his earlier tries, but this time Arthur stops talking and looks at him. "What?" he asks, voice stretched as thin as Arthur looks.

"I—" What? What does he want to ask? "I—"

Arthur frowns. "What, Merlin?"

"Was it quick?"

Honestly. Quick? A burning. There's nothing quick about it. It's roasting a person alive. Stupid, stupid question. Why did that tumble out his mouth?

Yet, somehow, Arthur is nodding. "There was smoke," he says quietly. "I don't think he felt much of the flame."

"Smoke?"

"Merlin, " he sighs, shaking his head with no hint of actual energy, "I may have refused to let you use your magic to save him, but I never said not to… ease the process. And you were…" He pauses then, leaning forward and pinching the bridge of his nose. "You were pushing so much magic at the situation that I suspect anything I didn't explicitly close you off from…"

His mouth falls closed, and he just looks down at Merlin, waiting for him to understand. It's easier than saying it, Merlin's sure. _You suffocated your father so he wouldn't feel the flames_ doesn't roll easily off the tongue. A mercy killing.

And still a killing.

"It's possible that the magic recognized your intentions," Gaius finishes for Arthur. "It knew what you wanted without being told, and it got as close to that as it could. If it couldn't save your father, it was going to help him."

Help him die. Right. Of course.

Merlin sinks his head back against the pillow.

"The whole courtyard stinks of smoke," Arthur adds, though not unkindly. More… resignedly. He probably even believes what Merlin did should actually ease a conscience. Maybe it should. Merlin would like that. It'd be easier that way. Easier. That's a laughable concept now, he thinks bitterly. "Thankfully, my father believes Balinor is responsible for it. A quicker way out, if you will."

"I—how do you know it wasn't my father who did it?"

Shrugging, Arthur leans back. One foot goes up, propping on the edge of Merlin's bed. "I felt you do it."

"Oh."

_I felt you help kill your father. _

Is there a chill in the room? He shouldn't be this cold, but he's shivering, and looking anywhere but at Arthur seems like a very good option indeed. Arthur, though—he's leaning back in his chair, his attention only half on Merlin now, the other half probably on matters at hand.

Not surprisingly, Gaius is the first to notice the unease Merlin is certain he's wearing fairly obviously. Arthur—he doesn't often notice things like that, not right away. He's his own worries to care for, and reading the discomfort of others requires looking outside himself in a way that Arthur isn't a natural at. Gaius, though, notices like a father—someone who's more attuned to a child's needs than to his own.

"Merlin," he begins slowly, leaning in toward the bed, even stilling his attentions to Merlin's arm for the moment, "what you did was a mercy."

Trust Gaius to know right where the heart of the issue is. Merlin can only sigh inwardly (and maybe a little outwardly too). He should have expected.

"Yes," he agrees blandly. Because it was a mercy. But it was still _him _who gave that death mercy.

"And you have nothing to feel guilty for."

The contortions passing as an expression—that scrunched-faced, pursed-lip incredulity—that Arthur's face starts attempting at the suggestion that Merlin could possibly feel guilty might be comical in another situation. "Well, of course he doesn't," he says, looking at Gauis like he's lost his mind. "You know that, Merlin." Merlin doesn't answer; Arthur expression smoothes out into something more like confused worry. "Don't you?"

"I still killed my own father."

It's not true. He knows it's not. He's being irrational. He just—he can't get his mind around everything, and it's as though his brain has stalled on this one point, something he knows he shouldn't even be taking to heart, but damn it all, it's easier to take _this _to heart than to consider the fact that his father is _dead_.

"What? You can't possibly be that stupid!"

And then Arthur's leaning down in front of him, forcing himself into Merlin's line of sight with as much presumption as he does in anything else, and somehow—who knows how—that makes Merlin feel… not better, but less like his chest is about to explode. Arthur is Arthur: an arrogant ass with a good heart who is, despite denying it, Merlin's friend, with whom Merlin would probably get on if Arthur weren't a prince, and…

And Arthur's still here. _Supercilious _and _condescending _and _overbearing, _but the world hasn't completely gone to Hell if Arthur can look at him like _that_—like he's utterly the most foolish human being Arthur has ever had the misfortune to encounter.

It feels good.

"That's ridiculous, Merlin," he scoffs, though the worried wrinkle of his brow takes the possible sting out of his words. "You know better."

"Yes. I do."

Gaius sighs. "Knowing is only one thing, sire."

"Well, then he's going to have to believe it too!" Because he's Arthur, and surely emotions obey him as efficiently as people, yes? And why shouldn't he declare that as though Merlin isn't sitting right here listening to his every word? "You hear me?" he snaps, glaring down at Merlin. "I don't care what you do. You blame me if you have to. But you do _not _put this on yourself. That is an _order_."

Ah, yes, an order, which Arthur so often gives when he feels that he's lost control of a situation. Totally in opposition to reason, though—and in complete contradiction to anything Merlin would ever admit out loud—this time it… helps. It's an odd feeling, the way Arthur's order gets under his skin and _digs,_ wiggling around until _Merlin, you idiot, that's the stupidest idea you've had yet _suddenly seems logical. Because Arthur? He doesn't lie—not to Merlin. He doesn't tell him what he wants to hear. He doesn't coddle. No, Merlin thinks, Arthur hits him until he's bruised, because an opponent will do worse. He insults and picks and mocks, and then he lets himself be insulted and picked and mocked in return when anyone else would send a servant who talked like that straight to the dungeons. He sacks Merlin one day in a fit of temper and then is willing to die for him the next. He's arrogant, entitled, and sharp-tongued, and he has a temper that he really ought to work on, but somewhere mixed in with that, there's an honor and a loyalty that makes the rest of him not always pleasant, but tolerable. And certainly worthy of loyalty.

And there is nothing more comforting than the fact that none of that has changed.

Merlin doesn't smile. He doesn't even really feel like smiling. But, if he did, that would be the thing to make him do it.

Apparently discontented with not receiving an answer, Arthur leans a little more firmly into his line of sight and adds, "Understand?" in a tone that is just the barest bit gentler.

Merlin finds himself nodding, and, more surprising in his mind, _meaning_ it. "Yeah."

Slowly, Arthur's face relaxes, easing from what is probably satisfaction… and perhaps a bit of relief. Still, he peers at Merlin for just a moment longer, though he does finally look away and up at Gauis. If Arthur intends to hide the pointed glance he gives Gaius—implicitly laced with the everything-is-fine-now-I-fixed-it look that should be arrogant but is somehow kind of endearing—he does a poor job.

"Good," Arthur says finally.

"I think—"

Arthur frowns. "Thinking is not a habit of yours, and now isn't a good moment to start. Sleep. You need it."

"I'd rather not—"

"Gaius, do you have something to help him?"

As if Gaius wouldn't. That's as sure a thing as Arthur needling him… and in a different way, it's just as important: Gaius goes to fetch whatever inevitably foul tasting concoction he'll pour down Merlin's throat, because it's what Merlin needs. Some part of it is incomprehensible—Merlin's only really experienced it with his mother before, who is his _mother_, which means it simply made sense because he was hers by blood, no questions asked—but Gaius is intent on that concept in a way that is beyond what he's called to do in just housing Merlin.

Whatever his reasons, he does it, though.

Just like he overrides Merlin's protests and gives him something to help him sleep while Arthur looks on approvingly, traces of worry and exhaustion still etched in the wrinkles of his brow while he somehow manages to sit there with crossed arms looking confident. _It'll all be fine _he's essentially saying, just like he always does for everything, even when it's all going horribly wrong. Sometimes Merlin hates that about him, but the thing with Arthur is that he truly means that aura he's giving off—he'll make things right or die trying—and to have that person beside you when your world seems incomprehensible—that's heartening. Arthur will do his best, even down to staying until Merlin slips under. Or Merlin assumes that's what he does.

Because Arthur is still there, talking softly with Gaius, when Merlin feels his magic suddenly flare. Arthur must know it's happening, but there's no wall stopping the magic. Okay, then, Arthur—he doesn't seem to _want _to stop this. It's nothing much, anyway—just one last burst of energy—but it stretches out of him and snakes across the room, seeking. Merlin just lets it go, eyes fluttering, wondering if maybe, possibly, Arthur meant what he said about not abusing that control unless he has to. Maybe, maybe, maybe, Arthur might accept what he is. He'd like that, he thinks as his magic gives one last, sharp jerk.

The tiny carved dragon resting on the table by the opposite wall comes to stand next to him on the bed just as Merlin finally feels sleep pull him all the way under.


	10. Epilogue

sarj2490: I know this one took longer than usual—I wasn't completely satisfied with it, so I spent a lot of time tweaking it. I'm still not 100% happy, but I'm at least pleased enough to post it.

Desiree1717: I couldn't leave it here. :) It needed an epilogue.

Takebuo Ishimatsu: Thanks very much! I don't think you could give me a better compliment. :)

fairy goatmother: *hands you a tissue* Sorry! I had no intention of making you cry!

aigneadh: They've certainly got some stuff to work out. If I was going to let Balinor die, though, I felt like I had to cut the poor guy some kind of break. I was pretty mean to him in this. I really do like Balinor! Promise!

bookaddict27: I adored that bit about the wooden dragon in the actual episode. It's one of my favorite things in the whole show, so it naturally just had to make it into this fic. :)

Alaia Skyhawk: The part with the wooden dragon in the actual episode made me tear up too.

sesshouluver: Arthur will never admit that he cares. He just won't. But we know. ;)

mrlnfan: As always, I very much appreciate getting feedback. I do have to respectfully say, though, that I think a lot of your critiques are based on the idea that everything Arthur did was just so he could keep Merlin with him. If that were the case, I'd agree with you—that would be entirely implausible. However, Arthur was trying to save Merlin's life—not just keep him around because he liked his company. If Balinor had lived, Arthur was convinced Merlin would die. I also have to disagree about everything going back to normal: they've got a long road to making things right. Thanks for taking the time to review, though. Even if I disagree with you on some stuff, I do really appreciate it!

yarra: It wouldn't be an easy thing to live with—I certainly agree.

Rilain: Since Merlin just kind of _is _magic, I always wondered how much was instinctual. Like, when he was a baby, what did he do?

Laughy-Taffy the Grape: Maybe not quite to his senses yet, but they're working on it.

finn1013: The last and final!

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><p>[Epilogue]<p>

"You haven't used it. The block on my magic. Not since..."

After two nights in the pouring rain—a four day hunting trip is always a lovely idea unless, of course, the two days of the return journey are terrible weather—most people would have ranked sleep as a high priority. Not Merlin, though. Never Merlin. He'd rather talk, and, apparently, he'd oh-so-conveniently like to do so just as sleep had almost looked nearly attainable.

Arthur just sighs.

"Has your brain recently become more addled than it already was, Merlin?" he asks with no real bite. "Go to _sleep_."

A few inches away, Merlin shifts a little where he's lying, and it's not long—a few moments at most—before Arthur feels an extremely insolent kick to his side. Well, not a kick, really. Perhaps just a poke. The point is, however, that Merlin possesses the audacity to kick his crown prince.

Arthur sighs again. It probably isn't a good sign that this sort of insubordination feels altogether normal.

"Do that again, Merlin, and you won't have limbs capable of functioning well enough for a third attempt."

There's more shuffling from beside him, and, for the love of—was that a soft snort he just heard? Did Merlin just snort at his threat? He has half a mind to turn over and give him a good smack on the head with a pillow, straight to the face, but-

"Part of me hated you at first, I think."

Well. Right. That's no to the pillow, then.

Sleep? It's not happening in the next century. Those words have him irrevocably awake, disturbingly in the same sense that he always is right before battle: nerves alive, every part of him hypersensitive. He'd known this was coming… eventually. Just not now. How could he ever have known it would be now, at a camp for the night, in a completely innocuous situation?

Probably he should have. This is _Merlin_.

"What _are_ you on about?" he asks, staring up at the dark sky and wishing that he really didn't know the answer.

Merlin may believe he truly doesn't know; he may not. Either way, he at least chooses to elaborate: "For stopping me from saving my father."

Gaius had warned him that this would happen eventually. He'd given Arthur suggestions on how to handle it. _Don't push him_. The thing is, though, Merlin had seemed so _normal_. After Balinor died, he'd been back at Arthur's side after just a few days, and even if he hadn't been his irritatingly upbeat self right away—not for longer than Arthur cares to think about, actually—nothing about the way he acted suggested that he merited the kind of worry Gaius seemed to have for him.

Not at first. Then there had been the first time he flinched away from Arthur—just at a playful bump to the shoulder. Later, the moment he'd paled when he'd smelled smoke. Also, that instance when Arthur had asked him to do something with his magic, and Merlin had snapped at him, asking why he didn't just order it.

Tucking his hands up behind his head, sinking them into his bedroll, Arthur just waits now. Yes, he'd known this was coming, even if it had taken him some time to see the reality of it: Merlin is as loyal to him as he's ever been, but whether or not he understands why Arthur did what he did, up until now, he's still been reeling from it, trying to find ways to cope and make sense of it all. Gaius had seen it right away, but, Arthur thinks, clenching his fingers into his hair, he himself had taken a little longer.

Merlin had taken longest of all.

And now they're going to have this conversation. It's a little like that time he faced down the Questing Beast, honestly... and at least then he'd been able to theoretically stick that with a spear.

"I hated you for getting to decide," Merlin continues evenly. "I didn't hate you for what you _decided_—just that you got to, when it was my life—and my father's—being decided upon. I wanted to choose."

Logical. Still, Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. He can't shut out the world, but he'd certainly like to try. Merlin—he shouldn't have had to hurt like this. And that decision Merlin wanted? It's nothing wonderful, and if there is one thing Arthur doesn't regret about the situation, it's that he made the call—that Merlin is not the one who knows he could have saved Balinor.

At least he got to be helpless. Arthur—he let a man burn. It was what Balinor wanted him to do. No one saw any other way out of the situation… and, yet, he _still made the decision_. That can't be changed.

He can't help but be thankful that Merlin isn't the one who has to live with that.

"I never blamed you for his death. I just blamed you for not letting me stop it."

"That sounds a bit like the same thing, Merlin." His voice is steady. Good. His chest, though? It feels about like his horse is sitting on it.

There's another poke to his side, and as sharp and bony as it feels, Arthur doesn't even consider reprimanding Merlin for it. "It's not. I promise that it's not," Merlin murmurs.

Maybe it isn't. It's sort of like the difference between being the one to order an execution and being the bystanders who do nothing—who stop others, usually grieving family members, from doing anything. He's seen that. He can understand that. Is that what Merlin means?

"Do you still hate me?"

"No. But I sometimes still hate what you did."

He will never admit how much that makes his chest clench, his heart curling up like it's trying to hide, and no amount of rubbing will ease that tightness. But stopping Merlin from saying things like that—it's not an option. They'll never get anywhere if they're not honest. Damn it all, though, are they going to wear the scars of this for the rest of their lives?

"It's not like it sounds, Arthur."

He forces himself to unclench his hands. How in the world can that be other than how it sounds?

"You always resent something about a person," Merlin says quietly, voice soft and about as non-threatening as Arthur has ever heard it. This time, Merlin hasn't moved his foot away. Though, he's not prodding Arthur with it, but rather just letting it rest against Arthur's knee. _I'm not pulling away_ he's saying silently, and it's enough to suddenly make Arthur very glad that they decided to come on a hunting trip that requires this sort of camping. "That's just part of any relationship. If everyone were perfect, they wouldn't be real. I might resent something you've done, but the reasons for why you did it, how you handled the aftermath—I admire you for those things. If there were never anything to resent, there'd never be anything to admire."

His throat feels dangerously tight. "Merlin—"

"I don't want to serve a perfect king. I want to serve a king who's real. No one wants to hear stories about a perfect hero, because there is nothing admirable in simply being perfect with no effort. They want someone who's flawed, who makes mistakes, but who fights against those things, because it makes the people hearing the story believe that maybe they can too. And, Arthur, sometimes I do hate that you forced me to let my father burn… but I always understand why you did it, and I'm loyal to you because you're an arrogant prat with a good heart who does his best, and who will die for what he believes is right if it comes to that. You're not perfect—you're anything but—but I believe that, even if _you_ fail, there's something about you that will make other men want to be better… and that's the sort of thing that makes a great leader. The kind of leader you find in legends."

Somewhere along the line, Arthur's fingers have gone numb from how hard he's been pushing them into the ground. He has to hold on, though. Just has to. "I'm hardly a legend, Merlin," he replies with a shaky laugh.

Merlin bumps his knee into Arthur's again, imbuing the gesture with a backwards kind of affection that Arthur just closes his eyes against: how did they get this far? "Maybe not yet. But when you are? I'll make sure they all know what a prat you are."

The choked laugh that spills out of Arthur's mouth somehow rushes all the air in his lungs out with it, and when he draws in a new breath, it comes easier. And then he's just laughing, rolling over and tackling Merlin, laughing, laughing, laughing while Merlin laughs too. He's too skinny under Arthur's hands, and he's as easy to toss around as ever, but at least this feels right. Fabric strains and Merlin protests—normal—and, more importantly, Merlin isn't flinching away. He's not remembering the last fight they had. It's something, at least. A start.

"You are," he says finally, breaking off once he's got Merlin pinned and has sufficiently mussed his hair until Merlin is begging to be let go, "undoubtedly the worst manservant I've ever had."

"Sack me, then," Merlin snarks, rolling back over onto his own bed, voice still breathless with laughter.

His smile is wide enough that it's nearly painful. That—it should feel so good. But it does. It really, truly does. "No. Every legend needs someone like you. Far be it from me to deprive the history books of a good laugh."

Silence.

Shifting up onto his elbow, Arthur glances down at the shape on the bedroll next to him. He can just barely make out Merlin's face in the dying firelight, and from what he can tell, Merlin doesn't look hurt or even particularly upset. He just looks… peaceful, all relaxed brows and small smile that pushes the skin of his cheeks up just enough to make him look healthier than he has in weeks.

Finally, Merlin turns over to look at him, and while the smile fades, the lack of stress doesn't. "We okay?" he says quietly, blinking slowly. Strange how his eyes catch the dying firelight, trapping it and managing to make it seem almost tame.

"I don't know," he replies slowly, holding Merlin's gaze as best he can in the near dark. "You tell _me_."

And then Merlin just grins. "Yeah," he says, laughing a little, "I think we are."

They have to be, yeah? Destiny and all that, right? That stuff Merlin is always harping on about. Maybe, just this once, he could be right. Of course, Arthur would rather smother himself with the bedroll he's currently settling down on again rather than tell Merlin that.

"You're yawning," Merlin informs him, though it comes out half muffled by a pillow.

"Well, if someone would let me _sleep_—"

"G'night, Arthur."

He has half a mind to smack him. Perhaps that pillow he was considering earlier? Or maybe he'll order him to the stocks when they get back. Tell Gaius everything Merlin's said here so that he can properly analyze it and drive Merlin up a wall with his worry. Something. He'll do something, once he wakes up, once they get back to Camelot, because Merlin is his incompetent servant, and they're both going to be all right, so they'll just do what they always do, and, yes, that will be all right.

Maybe not easy, but all right.

For now, that's enough.


End file.
